


Then There Was You

by shmoopie313



Series: Then There Was You [1]
Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Bloodletting, Bondage, Case Fic, Crossover, Drug Use, Edgeplay, F/M, Knifeplay, M/M, PTSD John, Romance, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:44:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shmoopie313/pseuds/shmoopie313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, formerly a Cassiline Brother, stumbles across one of Sherlock Shahrizai's cases, and neither of them are prepared for the reaction they have to each other when he does. With the royal family's reputation and the safety of the realm at stake, they work to solve the case, and figure out what they are and can be to each other in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Longest Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Sherlock (BBC) fic set in the world of Jacqueline Carey's Kushiel series. Those of you that came here through the Kushiel tag will do just fine following the plot even if you know nothing of BBC's Sherlock, though you will miss a few fandom references. I did my best to make this story worthy of her world - I hope you like it!
> 
> For those of you that got here through the Sherlock tag, before each chapter I will include a primer on the bits of the Kushiel universe that you need to know in order to not be totally confused. I tried to catch everything - if there is something that doesn't make sense feel free to ask me in a comment! Sherlock and John are still Sherlock and John :)
> 
> Chapter 1 Kushiel Primer:
> 
> Terre D'ange is essentially a fantastical version of historical France. The City of Elua is the country's capital, and the setting for this entire work. 
> 
> Religion is very important in this world. When Yeshua ben Yosef (the Son of God) was crucified, his blood mixed with the Magdalene's tears and the earth itself and birthed Elua. Rejected by God, Elua wandered the Earth, accompanied by 8 angels who left Heaven to free him when he was taken prisoner. They stayed with him, becoming his Companions. When they reached the then unnamed Terre D'Ange, they settled. Elua claimed the land as his, and each angel claimed their own territory within it. "For many years they dwelled there and abided by blessed Elua's precept, 'Love as thou wilt.' And Elua and his Companions lay with women and with men, and many children were begotten, save only unto Cassiel, who kept the One God's commandments. But the other Companions did not, and those secrets which they had brought from Heaven, they did teach to their children, and they grew wise in many arts." (http://www.jacquelinecarey.com/earthb.htm)
> 
> And so were born the D'Angeline people. The angels have not walked the earth in centuries, having created the true Terre D'ange beyond where they now abide, but their descendants still follow Elua's precept, worship him and his Companions, and are almost inhumanely beautiful and artistic. 
> 
> This chapter takes place in a temple for Elua. It is an expanse of ground inside four corner pillars that is open to the sky and contains a simple statue of Elua.

Light from the crescent moon reflects brightly off a blanket of snow covering the city. The stars shine in their ancient multitudes, reminders on this frigid longest night that the lives of the people below are mere blinks of time in history. John kneels on the frozen ground, arms crossed reverently on his lap, in a position his muscles and bones will remember long after he finally ceases these yearly vigils. Looking down, all he can see is what isn’t there – no steel vambraces, no twin daggers, no sword belt - accoutrements of an order to which he is no longer worthy of belonging. He could, if he wished – he could disappear into a monastery and live out his life in atonement for his failure. But that requires he accept that he could ever be forgiven. So instead, he looks up. The cold and the lack of sleep long forgotten, he looks up into the falling snow and the blessed face of Elua, and he remembers. 

Of course, remembering the end is never difficult. He wakes up screaming most nights as his mind forces him to relive those last moments over and over again. Screaming men, dying horses, war cries from across the desert. Always trying and never succeeding to do his sworn duty. To protect. 

It is harder to remember the beginning, when the kingdom was swept up in young romance. His ward was barely more than a child, a son of the Duc de Somerville, but he had won the favor of the equally young Dauphine and for that he warranted protection. John was young in his own way – naïve, an idealist – and not long out of training. Sebastian would be his first… his only… ward. Those early days were such a joy. Days spent bandaging skinned knees and bruised egos, protecting from young, stupid bravery more than real danger, and dreaming of a bright future for them both. But the years flew by, and the winds brought war. John was a Cassiline – a sworn protector of one, trained for combat in crowds and small spaces, sword and daggers moving in graceful, deadly circles to protect one point in space. He knew nothing of battlefield chaos, of combat that lasted days, of desert sands and scorching sun. But when a now grown Captain of the Royal Army goes to war, so goes his Cassiline.

Sebby had proved a natural leader early in the war. His men would lay down their lives for him without question if he said it was needed. That day many of them did. It was a simple assignment to check up on patrols in a stretch of the Carthage desert that was often used as a supply path for the invaders. No one expected to find anything; they were even laughing and poking fun at each other as they set out. 

The ambush party was waiting just above the edge of a dune, and there were so many of them. John stayed by Sebby’s side, fending off blades and arrows for what seemed like both hours and mere seconds. Then a shield caught the sun and shot it back into John’s eyes. The momentary blindness was enough for a curved blade to sink into his back, barely miss his lungs, and come out beneath his left collarbone. He dropped, stunned, for such a brief moment. A few seconds pause. Given the seriousness of his wound, it was just a breath. He stood again, and turned in time to see his charge, the boy who had grown so well into the title of Captain, fall to his knees with a sword through his heart. 

John doesn’t remember the rest of that day. There was death, everywhere. Screaming from animals and humans, the smell of blood, the feel of sand and scorching heat. But a Cassiline does not let death take his ward without permission. There is a reason they carry two daggers, though few have seen their real purpose done. One dagger to throw for a painless death for your charge, one dagger to slit your own throat to die with them. To die with them. Failing this is to fail the duty placed on you by Cassiel to protect. It is failing to do the only thing you are ever meant to do. 

John looks away, unable to gaze upon a god’s face any longer. The compassion there is not meant for him. He is anathema. He can no longer call himself Cassiline when his ward, that sweet boy, betrothed of the Dauphine, died thousands of miles away and he himself sits here, holding Elua’s vigil in the shining capital of their home. As the sun peeks over the horizon, thus ending Winter’s hold on the land and sending us all towards the light on the heels of the Sun Prince, John ends his vigil. He doesn’t know where to go from here – the night’s introspection provided no path to follow. Tears have left frozen trails down his cheeks. The still tender scar on his shoulder is aching from cold, and his legs nearly give out when he tries to stand. He is as lost as when he walked barefoot into the temple hours ago.

He thinks to offer a prayer before turning to leave… “Elua, have mercy.”


	2. Joie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had SO much fun writing this chapter! Sherlock’s Longest Night is a bit different from John’s. :)
> 
> Kushiel verse things:
> 
> The countries are all fantastical versions of the ‘golden age’ of their real world counterparts. Carthage from Chapter 1 is northern Africa. For this chapter, Kebbil-im-Akkad is the old Persian Empire and the Umaiyyat is the Arabian peninsula.
> 
> Joie is both a traditional greeting on the Longest Night and a sweet, potent ice wine. The Sun Prince is referencing a theatrical performance of the Sun turning old lady Winter into a beautiful Spring princess. 
> 
> The Dauphine is heir to the throne. 
> 
> Traditionally, the Shahrizai men wear their hair in tiny braids. The process of braiding is meant to teach the men patience, and the Shahrazai women who are doing the braiding dexterity. Before you picture it and laugh too hard, Mycroft does not participate in this tradition, preferring to keep his hair cut short :)
> 
> Naamah was one of Elua’s companions, and she often offered her body as payment for food, lodging, or whatever was needed in their travels. Those D’Angelines who pledge themselves to her service are the apprentices and adepts of the Night Court who reside in one of 13 pleasure houses on Mont Nuit. Servants of Naamah are highly respected and the work they do is revered. Each house fills a particular niche in the art of love. The apprentices start as servants in the house as children and when they are old enough they are trained in the particular art of the house. I’ll explain the specific house mentioned in this chapter next time.

For a country at war, it seems the palace spared little expense for this year’s Midwinter Masque. Candles fill every inch of the Great Hall with light, sparkling through crystal chandeliers and sconces. Evergreen boughs hang in long sweeps across the walls, accented with velvet ribbons and sprigs of holly. Tables are ladened with ridiculous amounts of food, a small orchestra plays in one corner, and servants circle through the crowd offering trays of delicacies and small crystal cups of joie to the costumed guests. The lords and ladies of the realm dance, eat, laugh, and generally act as though nothing at all is amiss.

Sherlock has spent his entire adult life successfully avoiding this party. Really, there are so many more interesting ways to spend the Longest Night. Just look at the people that come to these things! There are the members of parliament, high ranking nobles, friends of the royal family. The reins of Terre D’Ange in its entirety are held by some combination of hands in this room. Whose hands, exactly, are a matter of debate, but they are all, without a doubt, _important people_. They pander, lie, and _politick_ from waking till sleeping, and really don’t like it when you air their unspoken secrets right there in front of them. Sherlock thinks they shouldn’t be so obvious if they don’t want people to know things, but they of course think they are all masters of intrigue and never give anything away. Idiots. Do it enough, and they stop inviting you to their parties. Unless, of course, they are Mycroft.. no, Mycroft just looks _disappointed_ at you and makes you come to the Midwinter Masques at the palace. In a costume. The atelier had wanted to work tiny glass gems into Sherlock’s braids so they would sparkle. His braids will never _sparkle_ \- but Mycroft would eventually have to pay for even suggesting such a thing.

Mixed in with the power players of the kingdom are the truly vapid ones. Lesser nobles, too caught up in drama and gossip to really impact anything, not that they realize that, and all too eager to ride someone else’s momentum into greatness. Sherlock isn’t really sure how they function on a daily basis. They are… Elua, here comes one of them now. Lovely.

“What a surprise! Sherlock Shahrizai.. Joie! I never thought to see you here.”

“Lady Riley, lovely to see you. I…”

“You know, I was just talking with the Dauphine and…” Sherlock tunes her out. Of course she wasn’t just talking to the Dauphine. He doubts the poor girl is here tonight, much less conversing with the likes of Katherine Riley. Elua, was she still talking?

“… Of course I think that would be a lovely idea. Really make the noble families...”

“My lady, if you’ll excuse me. I really must find my brother. Joie to you.” And with a quick nod, Sherlock turns and navigates his way to the edge of the dance floor where Mycroft has just deposited a flushed and smiling niece of the queen.

“Brother. May we talk now or must I endure more _mingling_?”

“Come now Sherlock.. the sons of House Shahrizai must show support for the crown in these times. There is a war, after all.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed. How many casks of joie have been opened for this gallantry? And I do hope all of the costumes and food have done their part to support our soldiers.”

Yes. That was it. The _disappointed_ look.

“Will you not wait for the Sun Prince’s arrival? It is a few hours yet.”

“You know exactly where I wish to be when the sun is rising. And I think it would be in everyone’s best interest for you to give me leave to go. Soon.”

Mycroft quite audibly sighs, but acquiesces. “Very well. Follow me.”

He leads Sherlock to a room behind the Queen’s table, one that provides a clear view of the ballroom through a screen but that hides its occupants quite completely. Knowledge of these places is due to his “minor position” in Parliament, obviously.

“There is a matter that I need your particular .. talents.. in sorting out. Do you see the man currently speaking with the Duc de Somerville?”

“An ambassador from Khebbel-im-Akkad, is he not?”

“Yes. We have reason to believe that he is less an ambassador and more an informant of our movements to the Umaiyyati armies. We have nothing tangible, no proof that would hold in court.. which is why I need you.”

“You want proof that our Akkadian ambassador is a spy? You said this problem would be interesting… I wore a _costume_ for this.”

“The rumors that we have heard lead from him to an informant much closer to the crown. There is a chance the Dauphine herself is caught up in it. This matter requires delicacy and absolute certainty of the result. I can’t trust it to anyone else, brother… Please.”

The Dauphine an informant to invading armies? That is absurd. However, the fact that people seem to think it possible is interesting. Not ‘you must meet me at a costume party’ interesting, but he did say please.

“Fine. Can I get the details from you on the morrow? I would hate for you to miss more dancing.”

~~~~~

Finally in his carriage, Sherlock frees himself from his costume, paring down to a simple yet exquisitely tailored outfit - black trousers, soft black leather boots, and a tunic of deep red with the three linked keys of House Shahrizai worked in gold thread about collar and cuffs. Thank Elua he didn’t have to spend this time getting gems out of his hair! With only a few hours left till the return of the season of light, Sherlock rides through falling snow and moonlight to Mont Nuit for his own yearly vigil. The Dowager of Valerian House would have prepared his usual basement room before heading to the Night Court’s fete, and by now his lovely little anguisette would be waiting patiently for him there. Joie, indeed.


	3. Anguissette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned to go straight to the next morning and not do a scene like this so soon. But my subconscious and the characters took off without me, so here it is. :)
> 
> Kushiel notes:
> 
> Before joining Elua, the angel Kushiel was the One God’s punisher. He tormented mortal sinners until they repented. To him, the punishments were an act of love, and the sinners he punished came to love him for it, so much so that some refused to repent because doing so would end the punishment. 
> 
> Any money made by an apprentice of the Night Court while working goes to pay back the Dowager of their house for their raising until they have earned their marque, at which point they are adepts free to continue living at the house making a profit or to set out on their own. The marque is a large tattoo of the house’s sigil on the apprentices back that is done progressively through the training. A complete tattoo is the sign of a free adept.
> 
> The motto of Valerian House is “I yield”. Its adepts are trained in the art of being submissive and in enduring and enjoying pain. They all choose a signale before entering service, a safe word that demands the patron stop whatever they are doing. Abeyante is to kneel with head bowed and hands clasped in front of you. It is a position of submission, and one of the earliest lessons an apprentice of Valerian House will learn.

House Shahrizai, a noble family of Terre D’Ange who could trace their lineage in a direct line from Kushiel himself, has a standing contract with Valerian House. A very well-appointed chamber in the basement, stocked with an impressive variety of aides l’amour,  is reserved for them and their guests alone. Tonight the house is empty, adepts and apprentices all still at Cereus House or elsewhere enjoying the one night a year they could choose their own company and lovers instead of being assigned to them. Sherlock lets himself in and makes his way through to the staircase and down into the lower levels. He enters the family's chamber, closing the door and sliding the latch behind him. As he removes his snow-wet cloak, his eyes take in every detail of the room. He would have to remember to thank the Dowager – as always, everything is exactly as it should be.

            Most importantly, in the center of the room, sitting  _abeyante_  and wearing a simple red silk gown, is the gem of House Valerian. His anguissette. Anguissettes were a rare thing - chosen by Kushiel to experience pain as pleasure as a way of restoring balance to the world. The last known anguissette was born generations ago, and before her there were none in living memory. This one is, as would be expected, quite popular among Valerian's clientele. But given that most everyone in this city is an idiot in one way or another, none of them understand what a truly amazing thing she is. Sherlock does. And that is why she is here. On a night when no assignations are made, when all Servants of Naamah take pleasure where they choose, she chooses to be here, with him.

            “Hello, Molly. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting for too long.”

            “Never, my lord.”

            “Mmm. Come here.”

            In one fluid motion, Molly rises from the ground and walks gracefully over to him. Her long brown hair is pulled up into a lover’s haste knot, and her dark eyes shine brightly in the firelight. When she stops in front of him he lifts her chin so that he can see the red pinprick in her iris, the mark of a god claiming this one as his. Sherlock then walks full circle around her, just looking, as she stands so patiently. He pushes the shoulders of her gown off, running his hands over her body as the material pools around her on the floor. Her small breasts, her slender waist, the curve of her hips, the course hair growing between her legs. She stands still and lets him explore her. Then he picks up something from the table by the door, leans in close to her, and as he slips the leather collar around her neck and fixes the clasp he growls low in her ear..

            “Mine.”

            Pulse elevated, pupils dilated. Her reaction makes him smile.

            He nods towards one end of the room. She goes as he opens the flagellary and chooses. Tonight, it is the cat o’ nine-tails that calls to him with its long leather strips ending in small barbs. He sets it down on a nearby table as he locks manacles around Molly’s wrists and ankles, holding her spread eagle with her stomach and breasts pressing against the cold stone wall. He places a soft kiss on the nape of her neck, and steps back to run his eyes over the pale, flawless skin of her back. Picking up the cat o'nine-tails, he releases his diciplined hold over the pulse of Kushiel in his veins and his body hums with energy. The barbs catch tender flesh, leaving welts and open wounds on Molly's back every time they land. The sight of the first one is enough to make Sherlock’s phallus grow hard against his trousers. Molly cries out with each lash, gripping the chains of her manacles in white knuckled hands, but until she uses her  _signale_  Sherlock knows he has free reign to do as he pleases. Again and again the whips find their mark, until Molly is crying and sagging against the wall. He then sets the implement aside, freeing his aching shaft from clothing as he walks over to the shaking girl. He grabs her roughly, biting into her neck and pulling her away from the wall. One hand pinches sore nipples tightly, the other finds Naamah’s pearl and mercilessly stirs it to an aching swell. With little warning, Sherlock spreads her buttocks and sinks himself into her nether orifice to the hilt, thrusting hard. Molly screams, and with each following rock of his hips she whimpers and cries out in a mix of pain and intense pleasure. Elua, this beautiful girl. He is close and speaking is difficult, but he does manage to whisper a command.

            “Molly… I want you to come for me. Now.”

            Never one to disobey, Molly screams and shakes, her entire body tensing, her buttocks clenching around him. Sherlock lets go of himself then, spurting his seed deep into her, hands clenching breast and groin hard enough to leave bruises as he groans with pleasure.

            Molly sags in the manacles. Sherlock leaves her there while he cleans himself up, divests himself of his clothing, and gathers two items from the sideboard. He also pours two cups of chilled wine. He releases her from the wall and leads her to a thick rug piled with pillows.

            “Here. Sit and drink”

            She takes the cup gratefully, smiling at him. She sits cross-legged on the rug and sips using both hands. Sherlock lays on his side behind her, head propped up on one elbow. He runs his fingers down the lines of her marque, and she shivers every time they crossed a welt. She is doing well for herself – her marque is already halfway complete. Sherlock becomes momentarily entranced in the spiraling beauty of ink crossed with angry red welts, and Molly shifts, pushing back into his touch.

            “Are you recovered?”

            “Mmm…”

            “Molly…”

            Her eyes shoot open and she sits upright. “Yes, m’lord. I am.”

            “Good. Kneel.”

He takes the cup from her, setting it aside, and then lashes her hands together with the silk rope he had gotten earlier. The other end of the rope loops around a hook in the ceiling, just high enough to lift her knees from the ground so that she has little purchase to take weight from her arms. She is calm – she trusts him after so many nights together. But when she hears the click of a latch opening, she can’t hide the quickening in her breathe, and Sherlock smiles. The fletchettes glitter brightly in their case, each razor sharp blade capable of splitting flesh with the smallest of pressure behind them. The longest night is not yet over, and a punishing god is owed homage. Molly whimpers, and Sherlock begins his vigil in earnest.


	4. The Palace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a busy weekend coming up, so this will most likely be the last update till next week sometime. Thank you SO much for all of the love so far - your comments and kudos are excellent inspiration to keep writing :)

As the carriage comes to a halt, John takes a deep breath and steels himself waiting for a footman to open the door. He has been to the palace a handful of times in the weeks since his return from Carthage, and every time he feels the eyes of judgmental gentry following his every move. Whether or not they actually think Sebby’s death is on his hands, he does and his own guilt is enough to reflect off of them. This has caused him to live a much smaller life than he did before the war, and to only come here when he must. Today, he must because he will never be able to refuse a request of the Dauphine.

He steps out into the courtyard on a crisply cold afternoon, the first of a new year, bones still aching from the night before. His cane clicks sharply on the cobblestones as he makes his way to the west wing entrance. The guards nod familiarly as he passes through the doors, and he hurries through blessedly empty hallways to the Queen’s garden where Dauphine Sybille de la Courcel sits wrapped in a cloak of deep blue velvet. House Courcel has been the ruling family of Terre D’Ange since Elua walked the Earth and fathered them himself. Sybille carries the straight brow and slender frame of her ancestors regally, as one would expect of a future queen. However, unlike her younger siblings who also show the characteristic Courcel blue eyes and black hair, Sybille’s dark brown eyes speak of Alban royalty in her heritage, and her pale blond hair reminds many of queens from the past mothered by House L’Envers. At the moment, the blue of her cloak the only color in a garden of wintering plants and her pale hair shining in the bright sunlight, she seems so beautifully delicate than John’s breath catches. She turns at the sound.

“John! I am so glad you came. Please, sit.” She motions to the space next to her on the bench.”

“Your highness, are you sure you would not rather be somewhere warmer? You will catch ill out here.”

“No, but thank you. I have hardly been outside of my chamber since….  I need to be in the sun. To feel cold. To feel something other than suffocating despair. Here I can breathe, which is something I haven’t seemed to do in a long time.”

John walks over and sits, leaning his cane against the edge of the bench. The girl seems… not happy, but at least energetic. John takes some small hope in that. A sign that at least one of them will survive this.

“You look well today, your highness.”

“I.. I still can’t imagine my life without Sebby in it. I wake up every morning from dreams of him and it is like losing him all over again when I remember. He has been mine, and I his, since we were children. I … I pray every day that Elua will show me his plan in this. There must be one, mustn’t there?”

Not sure what to say, John takes her cold hands in his gloved ones to warm them.

“I am not ready for joy, for color. Attending the masque last night would have shattered me anew. People going about their joyful lives while I exist in this shadow.  But I am the Dauphine. I can’t stay buried in this, no matter how much I want to. I must move on. So today, I am here. Outside. And I wanted to take this first step with the one person in the whole kingdom who is as lost as I am. Thank you for coming. Now, tell me what has become of my love’s Casseline. I hear you are leaving the order?”

John lets go of her hands and looks down at the bare, frozen earth. “Yes. I broke my vow. I no longer belong with them.”

“Surely they don’t blame you?! They can’t! I can speak with the Prefect…”

“No. They… they do understand, and they will take me. I am the one who is unforgiving.”

“John…”

He looks up at her, fighting to keep his emotions in check for her sake. “Please. I can’t.”

She looks at him with such warmth in her eyes, and he is reminded that this girl has been in his life almost as much as Sebby, they were so often together. She cares for him, and would grieve again if anything happened to him. So there is that, then. One small reason to keep trudging forward. He prays to Elua it will be enough.

“Will you at least keep in touch? I would like to know what happens to you, where you end up. To help if needed.”

John thinks of the weeks since his return, the daily pattern of nightmares, grief, and physical pain. His voice is flat when he responds. “Nothing ever happens to me.”

~ ~ ~

Sherlock walks with long strides past the hall of games, listening to the chatter. Nothing interesting, as usual. Except.. hmm. The young Lord Morhban is here to see the Dauphine? It seems the vultures are circling in already. The chatter fades as he rounds a corner towards the west wing courtyard. His afternoon meeting took longer than he had planned, though probably exactly as long as Mycroft intended, and he is eager to escape polite company. Once home he can dive into the sheaf of letters, statements, and other papers Mycroft has given him in connection with the Ambassador’s potential crime. His thoughts already turning inward to piece together facts and minutiae, he doesn’t notice the man with a cane in the courtyard. He also doesn’t notice that one letter from the collection in his arms slips out and flutters to the ground near that man’s feet.

~ ~ ~

“My lord! You dropped…” John stops mid sentence when he notices the hand-writing on the outside of the letter. The Dauphine’s, without a doubt, on her personal stationary, and addressed to Ambassador Shaheen. Why would she be writing a personal letter to the Akaddian Ambassador? The tall, slender man who had dropped it was already in a carriage and on his way, so John picks it up as his own carriage arrives, and speaks to one of the guards.

“Could you tell me who that man was? And perhaps where I could find him?”

“That would be the younger Lord Shahrizai. I believe he has quarters at a boarding house in the market district, near the river.”

“A lord of the realm in a boarding house? Are you certain?”

“Yes. I was sent there to summon him to the palace just last week.”

The questions in John’s mind are only growing in number. But whatever this is, whoever that is, his gut is telling him that Dauphine is in danger. Casseline or no, he will do what he must to protect her. Before climbing in to the carriage, he gets the house number from the guard and addresses the driver.

“The market district, please.”     


	5. Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A belated but huge thank you to Fascinated for beta-ing, enduring many questions about D'Angeline details when my own memory and Google fail me, and giving me someone to blame at least in part for the inspiration for this whole thing :)
> 
> One minor detail at the end that non-Kushiel fans won't get.. I'll explain it next time to avoid spoiling it for Kushiel fans now. 
> 
> On with the chapter.. our boys finally get to meet each other!

The sun is already falling towards the horizon when John reaches the market district. He stands on the street in front of 221 Baker Street, and wonders just what in Elua’s name he is going to say when he knocks on the door. He is going to do it, of that he is certain. Every instinct he has is telling him that this is _something_ , and in his world of nothing it is a very important something.

He read the letter on the way here. It was short – a thank you for the gift of a music box. It wasn’t at all unusual for visiting diplomats to bring gifts for the royal family, and he imagined that the girl was lonely in the months since the war had started. It could be a harmless friendship. But then why would it have been in the hands of a Shahrizai? And why the hell would a Shahrizai be living _here?_ While John had been on friendly terms with many of the lords and ladies of the realm, he was not familiar with those that did not come to the palace or interact with the children while they were there. He didn’t know this man at all, and this man was for some reason interested the Dauphine’s interactions with Ambassador Shaheen. John suddenly regrets that he is completely unarmed, and tries to ignore the fact that he subconsciously feels for daggers in his belt as he finally steps forward and knocks on the door.

He is not at all prepared for Mrs. Hudson.

“Hello, I’m looking for Lord Shahrizai. Is he in?”

“Oh, yes. Come in, come in out of the cold dearie. Sherlock!! You’ve a guest! Clean up a bit, will you? Oh, do come in. Would you like some tea? I just put a kettle on a few moments ago.”

“Uhm, yes. Yes. Tea would be lovely, Mrs.?”

“Hudson. Here, sit by the stove and get warm love. Biscuits? I know you of course. Brother Watson. Oh, it broke my heart to hear the news of that poor boy. And the Dauphine! She must be so devastated.”

“Yes, well, she is coping as best she can.”

"And you. Oh, you poor dear. It’s just not right, sad things happening to such beautiful young people. Here’s tea then. Oh, what is keeping him? Sherlock!!!”

John sits, drinking tea by a fire in a cozy common room, listening to Mrs. Hudson ramble on, completely baffled by how exactly he ended up here.

"Maybe I should just go up and see if he is there? Would that be alright?”

“Of course, love. It’s the first door at the top of the stairs. If he doesn’t answer just go on in. He’s started a new case and that boy would ignore Elua himself if he came calling during a case.”

A case?  John nods his thanks and heads for the stairs. As he climbs towards the open first door at the top, he realizes that he no longer views whoever waits there as a threat. Surely a woman like Mrs. Hudson would not be so comfortable with someone dangerous.

~ ~ ~

Sherlock sits at the writing desk in his front room surrounded by papers. Letters, military orders, witness statements, bookkeeping records. He is reading every detail of every one, and so far all he can say is that Mycroft is correct. There is no proof. But his brother would not be so insistent without good cause, and a spy is never as careful as they think. There had to be _something_. And if there was something, Sherlock would find it.

A small part of his brain registers that Mrs. Hudson calls for him, but he is too absorbed in his work to think it important. Where is it? The Ambassador arrived six weeks before the first invasion. One of his possible routes to Terre D’ange would have taken him through the Umaiyyat. No, too simple. He is looking for something that all of Mycroft’s best people could not find. Shaheen was a social man – there are accounts of him attending parties and private dinners at half of the homes in the Palace District. The Dauphine is mentioned here at one of them. She was speaking with..

Sherlock startles and turns at the sound of a knock at his door. “Mrs. Hudson! Really!”

Not Mrs. Hudson. Who? Soldier. No, fighter. Cassiline. Out of practice. Unarmed. Injured shoulder, cane but stands straight. Mostly. Tired eyes, hasn’t slept. Grieving. Tan skin, somewhere sunny. Carthage. The war. Grieving Cassiline that went to war?

Oh.

“Brother Watson. What can I do for you?”

“Ah, not brother. Not anymore. May I come in Lord Shahrizai?”

~ ~ ~

The room is well-appointed, but obviously designed for comfort over style. Pillows and a discarded blanket lay on a couch that sits against one wall. Across the room, mismatched chairs sit in front of a fire place with side tables near each. Crackling flames fill the whole room with warmth and amber light. The dark wood mantle is framed on either side by matching bookcases, and like every other flat surface in the room, it is cluttered with all variety of things. Books, marble busts, glass jars of unknown substances, a magnifying glass, a globe, burning candles, old papers, rolled up scrolls, a skull. A door to the left of the fireplace leads presumably to a bedroom. To the right, situated between two windows looking out onto the street, is a writing desk covered in stacks of papers. And getting up from that desk is the most beautiful man John Watson has ever seen.

 “Sherlock, please. And yes, come in.”

Elua! This cannot be happening. Not now. _I don’t deserve this now._

“John, then. Thank you.” John sits in one of the chairs, leaning his cane against a table. “Mrs. Hudson said I could come up, and that you were working on a case?”

“Just a small matter for a family member. Looking for a pattern in some letters.” Sherlock sits across from him. John tries to glance around the room, but it doesn’t do any good. The vibrant green-flecked silver of Sherlock’s eyes is absolutely captivating.

“That’s… that’s why I’m here. You dropped one.” John reaches into his cloak and retrieves the letter. He holds it out to Sherlock. “I want to know what the Dauphine has to do with your case.”

Sherlock takes the letter and reads it before getting up to add it to a stack on the writing desk. He turns back towards John, and seems to take the measure of him before finally speaking. “Nothing directly. Someone thinks she is a traitor. She’s not, obviously, but I need to figure out who is before the rumor spreads more than it has.”

“A traitor? That’s absurd! How could anyone think that?”

“I don’t know. Not yet.”

“Will you tell me when you do? She has been through so much. A sense of duty to her country is the only thing that is bringing her out of this. She cannot know that one of her court thinks she is a traitor. It would be too overwhelming for her.”

“I can do that. Your loyalty is commendable John.”

His name in rich baritone is too much. He needs to get out of this room so he can think.

“It is loyalty well placed. Thank you for your time, my lord, I will let you get back to your work.”

~ ~ ~

Sherlock closes the door behind John and leans his forehead onto it. He breathes deeply, slowing his pulse and focusing his thoughts as the faint sound of bronze wings fades from his ears. John’s presence persists in his mind’s eye and it takes him a long moment to think logically again.

_This one? Oh, Elua, have mercy on us both._


	6. Ambush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In reference to the bronze wings from last chapter: The gods of Terre D’Ange occasionally communicate with their children, especially ones that are their direct descendents or their chosen vassals like the anguissettes. Each has a particular method of doing so, and the sound of bronze wings is Kushiel’s way of saying hi. It is interpreted as either a blessing of something you have already done or a godly nudge in the right direction towards something you should do. That combined with his reaction to John is a pretty clear message for Sherlock.
> 
> This chapter is a bit short, but I'm opting for natural breaks rather than a specific word count. Hope you still like it!

           Sherlock leaps across the alley, nearly missing the next rooftop, and rolls a bit before catching up with himself and continuing the pursuit. One more leap, then to the tree, down, down, drop from a branch, into the park, over a hedge and there! His quarry is just turning into a dead end alley behind the fishmongers. He rounds the corner seconds later, ready to pounce if need be, and is stopped short by two men with knives pointed at him. One of them nods back towards the street, and Sherlock realizes too late that a third was waiting to pin him in. His arms are forced behind him and he is pushed to his knees on the cold ground. Before he can think of escape, one of the men with knives steps forward and grabs his braids in a rough fist, pulling his head back.

            “A message, my lord, for you and your brother. Stop looking, or next time we won’t be so nice.”

            The man then throws Sherlock towards the ground and kicks him hard in the ribs. The others join in until he is left bleeding and bruised, incapable of going for help.

            Hours pass. Or maybe they don’t. It’s hard to tell when you’re slipping in and out of consciousness. At one point Sherlock thinks he sleeps, unless wayward Cassilines he has just met have a habit of haunting alleys in the wharf to offer comfort to wounded Shahrizai nobles. Actually, Sherlock is quite certain _that_ was a dream. That or he was rather misinformed about the vows of the brotherhood. Mmm.

            He hears his name in a familiar voice, feels his weight leaving the ground, hears someone shouting orders. He comes to a bit more when he is loaded into a wagon. The pale light of dawn is filtering into the city, which means he wasn’t out for terribly long after all. He looks up from the bed of the wagon to see a very worried looking Commander Lestrade of the city guard crouching next to him. He tries to speak but only manages to cough and sputter in pain.

            “Water! He needs water! Sherlock, you’re awake. What in Elua’s name happened to you?”

            Sherlock sits up and takes a long drink from the offered flask, still coughing as he tries to breathe. “Ambushed. Long story. Looks worse than it is.”

            “The hell it does. You’re getting examined by a chirurgeon before I let you out of my sight.” He bangs his hand on the side of the wagon to signal them to start moving. “And you’re going to tell me how you ended up here.”

            “I can’t. I’m sorry Lestrade.”

            “Elua’s balls, Sherlock! You can’t turn up on my watch beaten half to death in an alley and expect me to just let you continue whatever got you here in the first place.”

            “I’m _fine_ , really. Cuts and bruises will heal.” He holds his face steady as the wagon hits a bump and sends a jarring pain through his rib cage. Lestrade glares at him. “Fine. It was a lead on a case. The only one I found in hours of research. Apparently it was meant to be found because it was a trap.”

            “And you of course plan to keep looking.”

            “It’s an _important_ case, Lestrade. Anyone who goes to enough trouble to purposely set a trap in their trail is very afraid of getting caught. I’m not going to let some street rats with knives scare me away.”

            Moments pass in silence. Sherlock can tell Lestrade is weighing Captain of the Guard duty with, well, with Sherlock. By all rights Sherlock should be questioned, the alley searched, nearby citizens questioned. If he really wanted to Lestrade could arrest him for withholding evidence in a crime. Elua knows he’s done it before. Sherlock looks up at the stars and tries to stay coherent. He finds himself wondering where John might be, at which point he starts reciting the classifications of various species of bee until he has properly doused the emotion. Interesting hallucinations in dark alleys notwithstanding, he really can’t deal with that right now.

            The wagon stops outside Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson is waiting with the chirurgeon at the door, looking ready to burst into tears at the slightest provocation. Lestrade gets his attention before allowing the other guards to move his stretcher.

            “If you’re going to do this, you need to get help. Give me something to go on so I can help you look. And you need to get protection. If men with knives were the first trap, there is no telling what else you will run into.”

            Sherlock sighs loudly and nods in agreement as his stretcher is lowered. Suddenly very tired, he slips back towards unconsciousness. _Of course. Protection._

_I wonder where I might find that._


	7. Casseline

            John sits on the bed in his room as the setting sun casts red and orange light through the window. The room is simple and identical to all others in the monastery – single bed, single window, small writing desk, pale stucco walls. He hasn’t felt the need to add any personal touches to the décor, so the only thing marking this room as his are his boots and cloak by the door  and the contents of the trunk at the foot of his bed, packed and ready to go to new lodging as soon as he finds it. He looks around at this shell of a life and feels the rock at the pit of his stomach grow heavy.

 _This is what is left. This is all that I am_.

          His thoughts wander yet again back to last night and Baker Street. In a country where “Love as thou wilt” is the highest precept, stories of love at first sight are not unheard of. Though neither are stories of unrequited love, and the possibility of someone like Sherlock feeling anything at all for the someone like him is laughable. Elua, is that what this is then? Love?  Love, lust, or otherwise, John just knows that he felt more alive in the moments he was in Sherlock’s presence than he ever remembers being, even before the war. More alive than he has any right to feel again. John rests his head in his hands, trying to find the calm center he used to know well as grief and desire do battle with his heart.

         A messenger’s knock at the door brings him out of his reverie.

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. Could be dangerous. – SS_

        John isn’t sure if it is a laugh or a sob that escapes his lips when he reads the note. His grief is tugging on him to stay in this room and let it absorb him completely. But the note sparks the tiniest bit of hope, buried deep down at the bottom of his soul, and it is crying out for him to go. He takes a deep breath, reads the note again, and makes up his mind.

        Before leaving, he gathers his daggers and vambraces from his trunk. The familiar weight of steel seems to welcome him home as he slides the vambraces into place on his forearms and slips the daggers into their scabbards. His body adjusts, muscles remembering what it means to be armed. Lower center of gravity, straighter posture, more attentive mind. He prays to Cassiel for understanding and forgiveness as this is truly the only way he knows to be prepared for danger. He regrets his need of a cane, but there is nothing to be done for it. The spark of hope in his soul burns the slightest bit brighter as he heads out the door. 

~  ~  ~

            Sherlock breathes a great sigh of relief as Mrs. Hudson finally goes downstairs. The woman has been fussing about him all day since the chirurgeon left this morning, and it has only been by pretending to sleep that he has gotten any peace. Bruised ribs and some bandaged lacerations were hardly worth the bother she was giving them. He spent what moments he managed to steal processing information, looking for the chink that would let him in to mysteries of this case. He had given Lestrade some amount of information earlier, hopefully not enough to put him in danger, and he had to admit that it was reassuring to know the skilled Commander had his ear to the ground for him while he was stuck here recovering.

            He gets up from the couch and walks over to the window. Stretching this way and that to test his injuries, he decides that the pain is annoying but bearable. He tells himself that pacing his front room is good exercise, and not at all the result of waiting for a response from the last messenger he sent out.

~ ~ ~

            When no one answers his knock he slips in to find Mrs. Hudson sleeping in a chair by the fire, knitting needles and an unfinished scarf in her lap. He slips quietly upstairs so as not to disturb her and is rewarded with a chance to observe Sherlock without the man knowing he’d arrived. He is sitting in one of the chairs by the fire apparently lost in thought. His legs are pulled in close against his chest like a child’s with his arms are wrapped around his shins and his chin resting on his knees. He is all angles and long limbs, pale skin and cheekbones. John finds himself wondering how it would feel to let out Sherlock’s braids so he could run his fingers through loose strands of black hair.

            Having a moment to just look tempers the all-consuming desire that so overwhelmed him on his last visit. It is still very much there, but he can manage it now. He knocks on the door frame and Sherlock turns to look at him with a wary smile, as well as several cuts and scrapes, on his face.  

            “John. Come in, please. I hope you’ll forgive me for not getting up – it’s been a long day.”

            “Are you alright? You mentioned danger.” John walks over to the chair opposite Sherlock. Firelight glints off of steel as he sits.

            “I see you took that to heart. Good. I’m fine, mostly. This case is proving both more difficult and more dangerous than I expected. I was attacked this morning.”

            “Elua! Sherlock! What happened? Are you sure you’re alright?

            “Yes. The chirurgeon and Mrs. Hudson are making certain of it. I was caught up in a trap while doing some footwork.” Sherlock pauses, obviously searching for words. “I was lucky this time. I don’t know if that luck will hold in the future. I need help, John. Protection.”

            “And you want that protection from me. I’m not. Sherlock, I’m not a Cassiline. I broke my vow by failing to protect my charge.”

            “It was war, John. No one blames you. Besides, I don’t want a Cassiline. I want..” Sherlock stops himself abruptly and restarts. “You know how to fight, yes? You are obviously still comfortable when armed. I need someone to watch my back – can you do that without the dogma of the brotherhood behind you?”

            John looks into the fire, trying to sort out his thoughts. The Cassiline Brotherhood is his family, his life. It has made him everything he is. Was. Elua, why can’t this be simple?

            “John. I need someone I can trust.”

            John looks towards Sherlock. “You trust me? After one conversation?”

            Sherlock looks him straight in the eyes. “Yes. I do.”

            Simple.


	8. Crime Scene

There is a knock before John can respond. Sherlock silently curses and turns to glare at the intruder.  

“My lord Shahrizai, Commander Lestrade requests that you come with me if you are able. He is at a crime scene that he thinks you will want to see.”

A crime scene! Excellent! “I will be down shortly. Thank you.” He smiles and looks back at John. “So, shall we?”

John hesitates and Sherlock’s stomach lurches.

Then John smiles, the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth, and Sherlock has never been more elated to notice a detail. “I suppose we shall.”

The guard takes them to Night’s Doorstep, the collection of brothels, taverns, and other similarly-minded establishments that sit just outside of Mont Nuit. Lestrade is waiting for them by the back corner of the Cockerel. Sherlock hops down from the carriage as soon as it stops, the excitement of a possible lead overshadowing the lingering pain in his ribs. John is a few steps behind him by the time he reaches Lestrade.

“Sherlock. Who’s this?”

“He’s with me.”

John offers his hand in greeting. “John Watson. And I assume you are Commander Lestrade?”

Lestrade notices steel when the movement shifts John’s cloak and raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. “Ah. Of course. Well, I hope you can handle seeing a dead body. Come on then.”

They follow Lestrade to the end of an alley, where a man’s body lies in an awkward heap in the dirt.  Sherlock hears Lestrade asking something of John, but he tunes out everything so he can think. Livery of a footman, what house? No house, umarked. He leans down to get a good look at the man’s face. Illyrian. No signs of struggle, no obvious injuries.   

He kneels on the ground, opens the man’s eyelids. Eyes already cloudy, burst vessels. Blue lips. Suffocation several hours ago. How? He reaches into the man’s pockets. A few coins, nothing more. Scanning the ground around the body, he sees the corner of an envelope sticking out from beneath it. Pulling it out, he glances at it before slipping it into his pocket and standing up.

“Sherlock?”    

He looks at John and smirks. Time to impress.          

“A man of obvious Illyrian descent but groomed in a D’Angeline manner, in unmarked livery, dies of suffocation behind the Cockerel. He could be practically anyone’s servant, but if he were he would be wearing some mark of house or family. No servant dresses this way unless they purposely do not want a connection made. The man has been dead several hours at least. If he were just a servant on an errand, someone would have missed him. Whoever this man reports to went to great lengths to make him an unknown, and most likely knows he is dead.”

“Okay, but who is it? And how did he die?” Lestrade was so good at asking the right questions.

 “I have a few ideas on how he died, but that will require more work first. As for who sent him, if we are to believe the clues left for us, one of the visiting Illyrian nobles. A second trap in as many days! Oh, this is getting fun!”

“How can you tell it’s a trap?”

“If you wanted to cover your tracks, and went to the trouble this person has to do so, would you send someone so clearly of your nationality? Of course not. Someone knew this messenger wouldn’t make it home and knew we would be following the clues left to us. Obviously a trap. Given the events of last night, and the specifics of the message, I would say we are on the right track.”

“What’s the message?”

Sherlock hands the letter to Lestrade. “Unfortunately I don’t read Illyrian. But I can tell you that it is Illyrian written by a hand much more accustomed to Akkadian script.”

“That’s brilliant!” John’s exclamation brings Sherlock to a halt.

“Really?”

“Yes! All of that from a moment with the body? Brilliant!”

Sherlock ignores the smirk on Lestrade’s face and turns around before a truly ridiculous smile splits his own face. Just for a second, of course.

“Yes. Well. Now we have some knots to unravel in the case. John, we should be going. Lestrade, thank you. I’ll leave you to your work. Let me know if you find anything else, and when you get that Illyrian translated.”

~ ~ ~

As they walk out to the main street, Sherlock is practically humming with energy. John can’t help but smile at the sight.

“So this is what you do then? Solve crimes?”

“Yes. I solve crimes when the people who are supposed to can’t.”

“Not what I expected from Lord Shahrizai.”

“Would you mind if we walked?” Sherlock nods towards John’s right hand.  Which wasn’t holding John’s cane. He couldn’t remember leaving the carriage with it when they got here, actually.

“Huh. Not at all, apparently.”

 They walk in silence for a moment before John tries again. “But really Sherlock. Why this when you could have so much more?”

Sherlock sighs. “Because they are all idiots, John. Every single one of them. To them I am a freak. I am smarter than them, and I see things their brains gloss right over. Throws the whole idea of gentry social politics out the window when you refuse to participate in it. Having to play the noble son every day was maddening, so as soon as I was able I found somewhere more to my liking.”

John is not sure what to say in response to that. He hesitates a moment and Sherlock looks at him with a worried expression.

“I also really don’t know when to just stop talking.”

John can’t help but laugh at that, which makes Sherlock smile. “No, that’s good then. I can’t say I blame you. I just wasn’t expecting such a truthful response.”

The rest of the walk home is friendly silence peppered with remarks on the case so far. John tries to just enjoy the moment without thinking too much about anything. He is walking through a city that he loves, on a crisply cold and clear night, with an incredibly amazing man. He doesn’t deserve happiness, but perhaps for this one night a very tired warrior will be forgiven. Sherlock laughs at something he says, and John lets himself feel a small bit of peace.

~ ~ ~

They return to find a fire still burning in the common room, though it would seem Mrs. Hudson has found her way to bed. Sherlock is still buzzing, and knows real sleep is days away for him. Too many things to think about. A case to solve. A Cassiline to figure out. 

“Tea?” That’s a good start, right?

“At nearly midnight?”

“I don’t sleep much during cases. You don’t have to stay of course. I imagine I’m fairly safe here. But I thought you might want to?”

“I would. Yes. Tea would be lovely.” 

John hangs his cloak by the door and goes to get warm by the stove. Sherlock tosses his cloak on a chair and busies himself getting a kettle going and gathering tea things from the kitchen next to the small common room. This takes longer than it should because he is also watching John. Not analyzing or deducing, just watching. He actually can’t seem to take his eyes off of him for long. He needs to go, do, run, _work_ , but all of the energy from starting a case that usually pours into solving it is directed towards solving this instead. Solving them. His mind is not filled with clues and leads. It is filled with John. Things like this shouldn’t happen so fast, should they?  

_You are going to be bad for brain work, John._

The kettle boils and Sherlock carries a tray over to the chairs near the fire. John sits opposite him and their conversation picks up again. The case, the war, the royal family, court politics. It is so easy, talking with him. The topic really doesn’t matter. Sherlock will talk about anything if it keeps him here so he can get more information.

As midnight turns to late night hours, Sherlock finds his still very present energy turning towards carnal thoughts that are increasingly difficult to ignore. Having an extremely vivid imagination is not always a good thing. He needs to move, to distract himself. He gets up to take the long ignored tea tray over to the sideboard while John tells him a story from his years in training. He tries to slow his heart rate, steady his breathing, think about boring and normal things. But around every corner in his mind there is John. John’s smile. His laugh. His naked body tied down to a bed.

 _Elua!_ _I will never be able to solve a case like this!_

“Sherlock?” John’s voice from behind him. From very close behind him. He must have gotten up without Sherlock hearing. “Are you alright? You’ve been staring at that kettle for a couple of minutes now.”

Sherlock turns to respond. I was just thinking. I’m fine. A million ways he could harmlessly restart the conversation. But John is so close, and the pulse in Sherlock’s veins by this point is frantic. He tries to stop himself, he does. Then clear blue eyes catch his and he is lost.

Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock touches John’s cheek lightly with a shaking hand, a silent request for permission. In response, John takes a step closer and covers Sherlock’s hand with his own. Sherlock smiles as he leans down towards John’s mouth. He asks with lips and tongue for entrance, and _Oh, Elua!_ John responds with urgency of his own. Sherlock turns them and pushes John up against the wall, keeping their bodies close. John practically purrs in response, and Sherlock’s resolve crumbles to pieces. He grabs John’s hands, lacing their fingers together, and slides them above their heads on the wall, pinning John in front of him. He moves down to John’s neck, kissing lips, cheek, and jaw, breathing hotly on trembling skin. John moans and leans his head, allowing Sherlock easier access. John’s fingers grip his tightly. A deep rumble escapes Sherlock’s lips as he presses hungry kisses into skin that tastes of warmth and light, nipping and biting as he goes.  

Suddenly John goes rigid and quiet. Sherlock pulls back and looks at him.

_No._

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” Blue eyes brim with tears. “I’m sorry.” He pulls himself free and runs towards the door.

“John!”

John pauses to grab his cloak and turns back towards Sherlock. He fumbles for words for a moment, his face full of anguish. “I can’t.” Two words and he is gone.

Sherlock starts to chase after him, but what would that accomplish? He can’t force John to stay. He screams in frustration and punches the wall. Entirely too worked up to sit still, he grabs his cloak and heads back out into the city.     


	9. Temperance

John sprints through the streets of the market district, trying in vain to just outrun everything. He runs out of steam on a bridge over the river and crumples onto a bench to catch his breath. His skin burns with memory of Sherlock. Cool, urgent lips crushing into his. Hot breath running down his neck. Strong hands holding him to the wall. Bodies pressing into each other, and that voice come undone. Elua! Just the memory of it is enough to cause John’s stomach to flutter. In spite of all sense of duty and morals telling it not to, his heart soars. Sherlock Shahrizai wants him. Fervently, urgently wants him. The once unimaginable thought repeats in his mind over and over again, a bright smile threatening to break through on his face.

But then he remembers who he is, and what that means, and why he ran.

If he is being truly honest with himself, he has not made a real effort to find lodging outside of the monastery, or to have that final conversation with the Prefect, because at least part of him is not certain that he should leave. The Brotherhood is home and family. It is known, it is safe. And for all his protestations otherwise, he knows there is forgiveness there if he wants it and is willing to work for it. Whether or not he deserves it is another matter to be worked out over the years of atonement, but the Prefect wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t possible. In fact, he admits that part of him always assumed he’d give in eventually. Let go of all the grief, of blame, of everything, and disappear into a monastery in the mountains of Siovale. Lose himself in service to Cassiel, in a place where devotion and obedience will be simple and calm. It will all go on without him just fine, and eventually people in the city will forget Brother Watson. There can be peace in that, in accepting. It is really the only logical choice.  

But that was before a Shahrizai noble came blazing into his life like a second sun, making everything look different in his light. Before he knew the taste of tea and desire on urgent lips. Before pale eyes sparkled with life because he smiled or laughed. Before he knew in one defining moment that he was _alive_ like he had never been alive before.

There is still acceptance, forgiveness, and peace to be had in Cassiel’s grace. But now there is also _life_ to be lived outside of it.  

_Elua, help me. Please._

John gets up and continues on, to the one place he prays he can find calm. Moments later he is removing his boots to step onto the cold open ground of an empty temple, and sinking to his knees in front of Elua’s visage. He tries to find words to pray, but it is all he can do to just sit and let emotions of the past days wash over him. Calling on old lessons in meditation, he gives each it’s due, letting some pass through into the air around him, placing others in safe places in his mind to return to later. It takes some time, but eventually he is able to think clearly. He prays to Cassiel for forgiveness and to Elua for guidance, and at some point he gets to his feet.

Cassiline Brothers practice their art daily, going through forms and stances imbedded in their minds from years of training. John hasn’t done so since his injury, but he finds that nothing has been forgotten.  Slowly at first, a careful placement of feet and weapons, a re-finding of spheres within spheres. Lithe muscles giving physical form to prayers, moonlight shining off steel. Speeding up, he moves in circles, daggers gracefully defending from countless invisible enemies.  Again and again, John turns, protecting the space of his ward. Eventually the prayers in his voice and his mind are silenced. The battle cries, the screaming horses, the smell of blood that was everywhere for days after, it is all silenced. Again and again. Pain and grief go quiet as order and calm persist. Again. Desire and love grow still in his heart. Again. His world becomes only this courtyard and this telling of the hours. Again. Once more through each of the forms, and the warrior-priest finds his center at last.

He sheaths his blades, breathing hard from the exercise. Eyes closed, vambraces crossed with hands resting lightly on dagger hilts, he exists in complete silence until his breathing slows. In the center of his mind, the center of his soul, his prayers have distilled down to one question and he knows it is a choice that the gods cannot make for him.

He is either Cassiel’s, or he is Sherlock’s.

John looks up to Elua. “So it is your precept or my oath. Am I to be damned either way?”

Elua looks down on him with compassion and love but keeps what answers he may have to himself.

~ ~ ~

In a niche at the bottom of the stairs in Valerian House there is an altar to Kushiel. Sherlock kneels as he does every time he comes here, though his thoughts are far from anything pious. They are consumed with John. His smell, the taste of his skin. The way his breath catches with a kiss just _there_. The feel of his pulse under Sherlock’s lips. The sounds of his moans when their bodies press together like _that_.

The look of anguish in his eyes before he left.

It is not very D’Angeline to be angry with the gods, but Sherlock feels rather justified in it.

 _What is your plan in this? Two days! Two days he has been in my head and already I cannot shake him! You have made every part of me cry out for him and he_ does not want me. _Not in the way that I need him. Not in any way that I know how to need him. I was his from the first time I saw him, because_ you _lit him up in my world like a streak of lightening. And he is Cassiel’s. He will always be Cassiel’s, regardless of what he may do in a moment of ill-guided lust. How do you expect me to compete with a god?_

Sherlock stands, fury making his heart beat like thunder in his chest. Kushiel’s bronze effigy watches him without comment.

_And why do you want me so urgently to try? So I can win him, and thus condemn him? So I can break him? I am Shahrizai! You know better than any what that means!_

He hears an adept cry out from one of the closer pleasure chambers, a reminder of what is waiting in his own at the end of the hallway. The promise of Molly tempers his anger, at least for the moment. He looks into the stern face of his family’s guiding angel before turning to go.

 _Please_.

_If I cannot have him willingly, free me from this. Cut the threads that tie us together. I cannot hurt him again. I will not break him. Free me so that I will not be forced to defy you. Because if that is what it takes to save him, then so be it. It will destroy me, but that is better than destroying him._


	10. Clarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several notes today...
> 
> 1\. Thank you to the wonderful friend who shared her experience with me so I could make certain aspects of this chapter at least close to accurate. 
> 
> 2\. And another thank you to Fascinated - excellent beta-reader, encouragement, and Kushiel-picker!
> 
> 3\. I am going out of state to visit family for a long Thanksgiving, and since "I write smutty Johnlock fanfic" is not something I want to try to explain to my future in-laws, I won't have another update for 2-3 weeks. I will do my best to make the next chapter worth the wait. :)
> 
> 4\. One Kushiel-verse thing. Terra Nova is the new world, our Americas, at the height of European colonization and exploration.

Sherlock returns to Baker Street in the early morning, his mind mercifully quiet and focused. Molly more than earned her patron gift tonight, and he was grateful. Eager to not waste any more time, he takes the stairs in long strides and leaves the door to his rooms open behind him. The stacks of paper on his desk scream at him to be reorganized. He remembers what is in each of them, but there is still a pattern to be found and it was stupid of him to just leave them clumped together. Of course, he didn’t have much time with them before he was distracted. Happy to have a path, and the additional information from his attack and the Illyrian messenger to add to his filtering this time, he sets into his work.

An hour or so later, he hears a knock at his door and Mrs. Hudson peeks her head in.

“Sherlock? Two letters just came for you, dear.”

“Is one from Lestrade?”

“Yes, I think this one is.” He bounds over to the door and takes the letter she holds out. Eager for more clues, he opens the letter and walks back towards his desk reading. Mrs. Hudson follows him in.

"I’ll just put this other one here for you, then.” She sets the letter on a side table and looks around at the room. Papers are spread across the floor and piled all over his desk. A few are tacked to the wall above the couch. “Did things go well last night with John? He seems like such a nice lad.”

“Not now Mrs. Hudson.” His heart skips at the mention of John’s name, and it takes willpower to stop it at that. Ignore it, push it back behind a locked door. _Think._

She gives him a worried look that he doesn’t see and turns to go. “Alright, love. I’ll leave you to it then.”

The translated message was short - _She confirmed movement of target. Send orders to intercept immediately._ Lestrade had added his own note requesting information from Sherlock as soon as he has something. “She” could be anyone, but from what Sherlock is finding emerging from the letters he is confident that it isn’t. Of course, Mycroft had said that things were pointing towards the Dauphine. That’s why Sherlock is involved in the first place. But it simply can’t be her, it makes no sense. While Sherlock avoids court functions as much as possible, he knows of the girl and her devotion to Elua’s people. And her love for young Sebastian. It is much more likely that someone is trying to push blame on her, but who? Then the deception around the messenger himself adds another layer to the problem. Did the writer of the message intend Sherlock to find it? Was this an actual missive, or just another distraction to lead him off the real path?

He is pacing the front room, carefully stepping over papers on the floor, while he is thinking. His eyes run across the second letter.  Curious, he opens it to find unfamiliar handwriting. 

_Sherlock,_

_We need to talk, but first I need to take care of some things here at the monastery. It could take a while._

_Please be careful today. I will come by this evening._

_~ John_

John. Sherlock’s heart skips again, and this time he fails to contain it. He reads the note again, his thumb running over the paper as though it can feel where the other man’s fingers had touched. Everything that he had succeeded in locking away starts to come back into his mind, and in moments his quiet is gone.

_No!_ _Dammit John! I need to think!_ His mind starts replaying the night before, analyzing every word of the letter, deducing how the conversation John wants to have will go. He tries to reclaim what Molly gave him, to will his mind back to that glorious clear space, but he knows even as he tries that it is hopeless. He goes back to his organizing and it is slow and laborious. He is missing things that he shouldn’t, and he knows continuing to work like this will get him nowhere. Papers fly as he throws the stack in his hands across the room. Defeated, he flops onto the couch and curls in on himself, shutting out the world in hopes that it will shut out this too.

Hours later, after trying everything he can think of short of the solution that is whispering to him from the other room, he grows desperate. It has been months, perhaps longer, since he last took this route to sanity, but he always keeps a small amount stashed away for his peace of mind. The decision is made. Confident now that relief is coming, he takes the time to change out of the clothes he’s been in since last night, slipping into his favorite soft trousers, shirt and dressing gown. He retrieves the small box from the pocket of an old cloak in his wardrobe and runs loving fingers over the dark grains of the lid. Settling back on the couch, he opens the box and sets it on a side table.

Inside are two items. He takes out a folded piece of brown paper, carefully opening the small packet and inspecting its contents. There isn’t much of the powder left. Enough for today though, and that will have to do. He makes a mental note to get more coca leaves from one of the trading vessels in from Terra Nova soon. The second item, a silver spoon, is simple but beautiful all the same. It caught his eye many years ago in a now forgotten shop, and has delivered him to hundreds of euphoric moments of clarity since then. The sight of it is almost as tantalizing as that of the drug itself.

Precise fingers poor the fine white powder into the spoon, discarding the now empty paper back into the wooden box. There is no elegant way to insufflate powdered coca, but that hardly matters as it enters his sinuses and its active chemicals cross the delicate membrane barriers into his blood stream on a direct crash course with the nerve endings of his brain. He sets the spoon back into the box after licking the remaining powder from it. His lips and tongue tingle and he runs his fingers through his braids in almost frantic anticipation. Almost there. The storm in his brain intensifies, as though fighting against what is coming, refusing to let him be. But it is coming, and nothing can stand in its path. He gets up to pace, too eager to sit. Three steps from the couch, a heartbeat more, and then the clouds break open to a brilliant sun, illuminating his mind in elucidating light.

Oh, yes! This. _This_ is how his brain is supposed to work! The world is suddenly, completely, excitingly _his._ Everything is as it should be, and he marvels at the thought that it ever wasn’t.

He looks around the room, and he can as good as see the words from all of the documents leaping towards one another, forming a pattern in seconds. He quickly grabs piles of paper, putting them in the order they want to be in. The important ones, the ones that connect her to everything, he puts on the wall. As he works, the layers of words peel back one after another to reveal the secrets they were hiding.

Finally, such a lovely puzzle! There is the Dauphine, but there are others too. A handful of the peerage, with little connecting them outside of their title and the information Sherlock has in front of him. They all received gifts from the Ambassador and attended parties where Shaheen was present. Bribes? Maybe. They are members of Parliament as well as members of the smaller councils that advise on various military actions. Every ambush on D’Angeline soldiers happens on missions that someone in this group of people knows about. The information has to be coming from them. From her. She is the only one of the lot that is aware of every mission. But how? She would never endanger her Captain willingly. How is she informing someone without knowing it?

Sherlock practically dances around the room while he works. By the time the drug’s effects are fading, he has several working theories on the case and knows what needs to happen next. Since barging in on the Dauphine on a random evening is frowned upon, he is content to put things aside and wait till tomorrow. He lies down on the couch, enjoying the lingering clarity of thought. The case being mostly solved and pending information he can’t gather till tomorrow gives him time to safely contemplate his other problem. He finds he can think calmly about it for the first time since John walked in his door, which makes him smile. He brings his fingers together in front of his face, straightens his body down the length of the couch, and starts analyzing details.

 


	11. Oaths & Precepts

Sherlock stands at one of the windows in his front room, watching John walk towards 221B in the quickly gathering darkness. John stands straighter and walks more purposefully than Sherlock has seen before, giving off a presence that would draw eyes to him in a crowd. Sherlock realizes that this is how the other man must have been before the war and that at some point today John has found that aspect of himself again. With the hilt of a great sword showing above his left shoulder, vambraces catching the light from shop windows as he walks, and a long grey cloak hiding daggers at his belt, he looks every bit a Cassiline, but the expression on his face as he walks closer is one of apprehension and uncertainty. He is worried.

Sherlock knows in that moment what he must do for both their sakes.

There were really only three options, and Sherlock thoroughly explored all of them while waiting out his earlier return to a chemical free state. He could pursue John with everything he is, and there is no doubt in his mind that he would win him. John is willing and Sherlock is a Shahrizai. He could tease and coax and sculpt that willingness into whatever aspect of love or lust he wishes to make of it. Yes – he could have John, but at what cost? That way is dark and ends with John forsworn and broken. No longer truly John. It is an option, but not one Sherlock is willing to entertain.

He could also let John take the lead. Step back and simply react. If John does not want this then Sherlock is willing to accept that.  But if he does, and Sherlock is fairly certain that is the case, John could have him on his own terms. The business of gods and oaths would be between John and Cassiel, and not Sherlock’s place to intervene. Kushiel would approve of the result if not the means, and Sherlock would not be directly responsible for John’s fall from Cassiel’s grace. He could just have and love and be complete in a way he did not think possible before John walked in his door.

Sherlock decided on this route before getting off the couch earlier. But then he saw John walking down Baker Street, the Cassiline Brother walking down Baker Street, and realized his desires were far from reasonable. There is great hubris in the Shahrizai line, and Sherlock is not excluded from it. No matter what Kushiel may think of it and no matter how it breaks Sherlock’s heart, John Watson is Cassiel’s. It is written in his stance, his gait, his face. It is arrogant for Sherlock to think he could make it otherwise simply because he wishes it so. It is the third option he must choose, the one least favorable for himself.

Sherlock hears John’s knock on the door downstairs. He doesn’t have much time. He wraps his arms about himself, closes his eyes, and turns his consciousness inward. John is everywhere still, but Sherlock has been once again in control of his own mind since his drug-induced escape. He quickly gathers John’s laugh, his eyes, and his voice. He finds the taste of his tongue, the sound of his moans, and the smell of his skin. He pushes everything that is and could have been _his_ John into a back room of his mental landscape, locking the door securely. Without the other man’s presence in the forefront, everything feels a little empty. But it is safe and it is logical. It is the only way to ensure he does not give in to his darker tendencies in a moment of weakness. The only way to keep John safely in Cassiel’s hands. It is what must be done.

~ ~ ~

“Sherlock is upstairs, dear. Though I don’t know how much company he will be. He’s in one of his moods.”

John kicks frozen slush off of his boots before stepping inside to the common room.

“His moods?”

“Oh yes. Stomping about since this morning. He played his violin for a long time. The music is always so beautiful when he does, but today it was angry and violent and just unpleasant to hear. It’s been quiet for a while though. I was just going to go check on him, but now that you’re here could you? He can be so ugly sometimes.”

“Uhm. Yes. Of course.”

Mrs. Hudson smiles a relieved thanks and goes off to bustle about the kitchen. John walks up the stairs to a closed door, completely at a loss for what to expect on the other side of it. He went over what he is going to say so many times today, but suddenly he doesn’t have a clue what any of it was. How on earth is he going to start this conversation?

He knocks lightly and pushes the door open to a somewhat different scene than the one he found here last. It is still a room of comfortable clutter, but his eyes pick up on new details that give warrant to the landlady’s concern. The organized stacks of paper from the writing desk are scattered throughout the room, some tacked to the wall above the couch, others spread across the floor in what John assumes is an important pattern. A violin and bow sit propped on the cushions of one of the chairs. There is a dagger sunk an inch into the wall above the fireplace, skewering John’s message from this morning there. The fire is burned down to coals, barely giving off any heat into the quickly chilling room. And then there is Sherlock, barefoot in a blue silk dressing robe, standing perfectly still in front of one of the curtained windows.

“Sherlock? Mrs. Hudson is worried. Are you alright?”

Sherlock speaks without turning around. “I’m fine. Thinking.”

“About?”

“The case, obviously.”

“Ah.” John walks in, undoing the strap of his sword scabbard and the clasp of his cloak to slip them both off with fluid motions. He deposits them on the couch, and in doing so sees a small wooden box left open on a table. His brow wrinkles as he picks up folded brown paper. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Coca. Yes. It helps me think.”

“Sherlock! People have died from using this! Are you insane?” John is crumpling the paper in his hand as he turns to yell at Sherlock’s still-turned back.

“No. The people that died were possibly insane. I know my limits.”

“You know your limits. Right. This is not acceptable. Not at all.”

“It is not your concern to protect me from myself, John. I know what I’m doing.”

“It is absolutely my concern. You are not doing this again, not on my watch.” He throws the crumpled paper back towards the box without taking his eyes off of Sherlock. Sherlock just stands there without responding. “Elua’s balls! Will you turn around and talk to me?”

 Sherlock turns around and looks at John with guarded eyes. His arms are wrapped around him and his hair is a wild mess of dark curls. He looks like he just woke up from a restless nap, but his face is serious and cold. “There is nothing to talk about. Unless you want to hear about advances in the case, but I doubt that is what you were referring to.”

“There is plenty to talk about. That, for one.” He gestures towards the wooden box. “And us. Last night.”

“Last night was my fault. A mistake. It won’t happen again.”  No emotion in his voice, no change in his expression.

John’s heart lurches, but his anger carries him through. “No. It was not a mistake, and you know that, unless you truly are insane. Rushed, yes. Perhaps ill-planned. But not a mistake. _You_ are not a _mistake_.”  He takes a step closer to Sherlock, but the other man doesn’t move a muscle.

“You are Cassiel’s. It’s true despite what your guilt tells you. There is no room for me in that as anything more than your ward.”

“Sherlock, today I-”

“No. If you did then it can be undone. You are my protection. I am your ward. We have a case to solve, and quite possibly a realm to save. If you do not wish me to use coca powder while under your protection I am willing to make that concession. But I will not concede on your soul, John. It is worth more to me than that.”

With those last words, Sherlock finally looks at him instead of at a spot over his shoulder and John sees through the cold façade. Fear, sorrow, longing, and loss move through silver blue eyes for the briefest of moments before certainty and stubbornness replace them. Sherlock honestly believes in the rightness of this choice. John’s anger shifts and his heart aches for the sacrifice this man is willing to make for his sake. He takes another step forward. Without breaking eye contact he gently places his hand on Sherlock’s neck, rubbing his thumb over soft black curls behind Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock is still and barely breathing - he just stands looking down at John.

“It can’t be undone. It’s a one-time choice, and I’ve made it. Cassiel says I must spend a lifetime in atonement, but Elua says to love as thou wilt. So I will love, and find atonement in my own way.”

“John, I- I’m not-” Sherlock growls and pulls away from John’s touch. He takes several steps towards the fireplace before turning around. “Kushiel’s blood flows through my veins. Do you know what that means? What I am capable of? I will not save you John – there is no atonement to be found here. I will destroy you! You should not have left the Brotherhood.”

“You are Shahrizai. I know. I don’t fully understand what that means, but I have an idea. Kushiel. The One God’s punisher who gave sinners and forsworn the chance to find repentance through punishment. Doing so in love, so much so that his charges begged for torture at his hands and refused to leave him when given the choice because they loved him in return. He left the strict rules of the One God behind to follow the precepts of an angel who saw love as something greater.” John pauses, searching for the right words. His voice is low and rough with emotion when he continues. “I don’t know what all of that means for you, but I want to find out because I know what it means for me and this is exactly where I am supposed to be.”

“John.” One word, but in it is everything John needs to hear.

~ ~ ~

Love, desire, hope, fear. Gossamer tendrils slip out beneath the locked door in Sherlock’s mind, as though they can sense John’s presence, his need. John’s voice coaxes them out and up to slip the lock and open the door. Quietly, quickly, they find their home in corners and nooks – not in the way, not demanding attention, but still very much there. Permanent residents that refuse to be sent away again.

John’s name on his lips is a prayer, and it is answered by the soft sound of bronze wings beating in his ears. John crosses the distance between them and pulls Sherlock into his arms, holding him close. Sherlock wraps his arms around the smaller man and leans his head down to bury his face in John’s hair. It is several moments before John pulls away just enough to look up at Sherlock.

“I won’t pretend that I’m not terrified. I’m in completely uncharted territory here, and I’m probably going to muck things up more than once. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s, breathing him in. “And if you don’t like everything you learn about me? I’m not very normal, John.”

John laughs softly. “I wouldn’t expect that you are. One day at a time then, yeah?  Probably better if we start things a bit slower than last time, but I’m here no matter what. Alright?”

Sherlock closes his eyes and his voice is a whisper. “Alright.”

 John smiles at him and steps back, keeping a grasp on one hand. He leads them towards the couch and the wall above it that is covered in case files. “So, what was that you were saying earlier about news with the case?”

Sherlock’s lips curl in a small smile at John’s eagerness. As he starts in on his deductions and connections and information, he watches John out of the corner of his eye. He is still worried. For all of John’s bravado, this won’t be easy. Nothing Kushiel asks of him ever is.

 


	12. The Dauphine

For the first time since returning from Carthage, John walks into the front doors of the palace with his back straight and his eyes forward. They walk past two Cassiline Brothers and the terse nods they receive are distant and formal. He is anathema to them, all familiarity sacrificed in John’s choice. It tugs at John’s heart, but it was also expected, and there is nothing he can do to change it. He is still certain he took the right path.

He would be fooling himself to say that his grief and guilt are gone, but today, at least, is a good day. He is no longer alone, no longer lost, and he takes great comfort in the hope that with time all will again be right in his world. So today he breathes and he laughs and he tries not to smirk at the whispers that follow in his and Sherlock’s wake. The gossip about John alone is enough to set tongues of the realm wagging, but then to also see him the next day happily in the company of Lord Sherlock Shahrizai, a man who most view as an oddity to be avoided? John can practically feel the rumors spiraling out from around them, and from the amused expression just barely showing on Sherlock’s face he can tell the other man has picked up on it as well.

Sherlock looks at him as they enter the hall of portraits and leave the babble of the main corridors behind. He raises his eyebrows in a silent question: _Alright?_

John smiles and nods. 

 _Elua! Is it really this easy already?_ The night before they had talked about the case until John’s exhaustion caught up with him and he had to fight to keep his eyes open. His trunk had arrived not long after he did, and he planned to ask Mrs. Hudson about renting one of her empty rooms but Sherlock insisted that he stay. Not one to protest when a beautiful man asks him to share his bed, John agreed and was fast asleep almost before his head hit the pillow. It wasn’t until he woke the next morning that he realized Sherlock had not slept at all and was instead tinkering about with some experiment in the front room. Perhaps that was better for now, given that they had agreed to take things slowly. He also realized Sherlock had not eaten anything since he wasn’t sure when. It took some effort to cajole him into a few bites of toast and honey with his tea while they waited on a response to John’s request for an audience with the Dauphine. Yes, it was obvious that everyday matters of life with Sherlock would be anything but normal, but John fell into step with all of it very easily.

John glances at the portraits as they walk down the empty hallway. Every member of the Courcel line going back generations upon generations is represented here. Sybille’s portrait was painted just after her sixteenth birthday, in the full royal regalia of the heir to the throne. She is absolutely stunning in it. In another year there would have been one of her and Sebastian standing side by side as future King and Queen of Terre D’ange. The Princess and her Captain. John says quick prayers to both Elua and Naamah that the girl will find love again when she is ready, and that whoever it is she finds will be gentle and caring, daring and exciting, brave and loyal. She deserves no less than that.      

As they continue on their way through the hall and around a corner, John remembers the stories he was told as a child of Elua’s scions. Sybille’s great-grandfather was one of the first explorers of Terra Nova, when the continent was still a dark and mysterious place. One queen silenced a battle field and brought soldiers to their knees with her mere presence. Another son of House Courcel saved the realm from a sorcerer’s dark spell because he refused to give up on love. Perhaps Sybille would be alright after all. She has bravery and daring of her own in her blood.  

Sherlock’s hand on the small of his back brings John out of his reverie. The touch sends quivers through his spine, and he fights the urge to pull Sherlock into his arms right there in front of two guards. _Slowly, John. We’re taking this slowly. Elua!_ John shakes his head clear and looks around. They have arrived at the door to the Dauphine’s apartments. It is highly unusual for anyone outside of family and close friends to be granted access to this part of the palace, and John is grateful for Sybille’s willingness to let Sherlock come with him. He pauses before knocking, and looks up at Sherlock. 

“If we can do this without letting her know what has been said about her, I would be grateful.”

“I know, John.”

Their knock is answered by one of the Dauphine’s handmaids, and they are ushered in to a very well-appointed sitting room. They take a seat, accept the offer of tea, and wait quietly. Sherlock’s eyes dart everywhere, making John wish he could hear what details were flying through his mind. Does he see the blanket on the settee by the fire? It is old and loved, out of place among polished mahogany furniture and expensive artwork. Years ago it wrapped around the shoulders of two tow-headed adolescents as they huddled together in a carriage seat across from John, sharing secrets as they rode to one fete or another through a frigid winter. It reappeared every winter since, and apparently this horrible year is not an exception to tradition. _Tread carefully, Sherlock. Please._

_~ ~ ~_

When the Dauphine enters, Sherlock and John stand and bow to greet her.

“Thank you for letting us come on such short notice, Your Highness. I know asking to see you here is an unusual request.” John cares about this girl. It is written in his face and the way he speaks to her. He is protective.

“It is nothing to worry about, John. I have little to do today anyway, and honestly I was intrigued by your note and rather looking forward to the distraction of visitors.” The Dauphine’s smile is a sad one, but it still lights her face in a way that is beautiful.

“Then I am glad we could be of service. Your Highness, I present Lord Sherlock Shahrizai. Sherlock, the Dauphine Sybille de la Courcel.”

“It is a pleasure, Your Highness, though I apologize for the grim circumstances that brought us here.”

“Sherlock Shahrizai. Mycroft’s little brother, aren’t you?”

Sherlock nods. “I am, Your Highness.”

Her eyes flick between the two men, and she looks at John for a several seconds as a knowing smile just slightly curves her lips. Sherlock is reminded that the blood of Elua flows through her veins just as Kushiel’s flows through his own. “More importantly than that though, you are a friend of John’s. If he trusts you, then I do as well. Please, sit.” She motions them to one of the couches, and takes a seat herself in a tall armchair. “What help can I offer you in your case? Your note was not very specific.”

Sherlock picks his words carefully, “I have been tracking a security leak for Mycroft.  Details of our military’s movements are being handed off to the Umaiyyati.” Sherlock pauses, trying to find a kinder way to word what he has to say, for John’s sake if nothing else. “It is the reason for all of the ambushes that have prevented us from making headway in pushing them back through Carthage.”

He waits for the Dauphine to grasp the depth of that statement before continuing. “We have a lead on who is passing on the information, but we haven’t figured out where it is coming from in the first place. The list of people it could be is fairly short, and most are people who would die before betraying the country. So I would like to look around your rooms with your permission. To see if I can find anything that will connect the details we have so far. I don’t know exactly what it is, but somehow the information is being stolen. We need to know how they are getting it.”  

“In my rooms? Why? What could there be here?” Sherlock could see her mind working, piecing together what he had told her, trying to find any result other than the heart-wrenching correct one.

“It seemed wise to start looking here because you are the most prominent name on our list, Your Highness.”

“Oh. Oh, Elua. John, what have I done?” Dammit, that did not come out as well as he had hoped it would. She is looking to John with anguished eyes.

“Nothing. You’ve done nothing.” John is off the couch and on his knees next to her chair in an instant. He takes her hands in his, rubbing his thumbs over the back of them. “If the information is coming from you, it is not willingly and there is no way you could have known it was being taken. This is not your fault, love. Not at all.”

Sybille searches John’s eyes for a long moment before looking up at Sherlock. It would be easy to mistake the young Dauphine as fragile. She is trusting and emotional, kind and loving. All traits some would regard as weaknesses. But there is also steel in her spine, fury in her heart, and fierce loyalty in her core. She is descended from heroes and warriors. She is the child of a rebellious angel. And she is angry. 

“Look wherever you need, Lord Shahrizai. My rooms are open to you. Just promise me that when you find what you are looking for you will make the person responsible pay dearly.”

“I will make sure of it, Your Highness.” Sherlock doesn’t think he has used that particular honorific with actual respect before now.

He leaves John and Sybille talking quietly and turns his attention to the room around him. Not knowing what he is looking for makes this a particularly entertaining puzzle. He lets go the reins on his observational senses and absorbs anything and everything he can gather about his surroundings. He doesn’t focus on a solution, he just observes and lets his mind sort everything this way and that however it wishes. He wanders down every wall of the sitting room, and finding nothing. Everything here is expected, part of the whole. It blends wholly with the pattern of details that is Sybille.

He slides the door to the bedchamber open and steps into the room. The handmaid watches him carefully, but does not disturb him. This room is brighter, with large windows and a balcony over one of the palace’s larger gardens. He walks the walls again, making sure nothing misses his gaze.

_There._

_Oh._

_Oh!_

“John! Oh, you are brilliant John!”

“Sherlock? What on earth are you talking about?” John walks into the room, followed closely by the Dauphine. Sherlock looks excitedly at John, holding out the item in his hands.

“A box? It’s a box. What is it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock opens the lid and a lilting, haunted tune begins to play in metallic notes. “A music box, John! The letter you brought me? I would never have made the connection. Don’t you see?” Sherlock pushes the box into John’s hands. “Look at the lid, the woodwork.”

“This was made in Khebbel-im-Akkad. Or somewhere close to it.”

“Yes. And gifted to the Dauphine by Ambassador Shaheen. Just like he gifted all of them some trinket from his home country. Look inside, under the lining.”

John opens the box and sees where Sherlock has slit through the lining with a knife to expose the wood beneath. The wood is covered with symbols and an Akkadian-like script written in dark ink. He looks up questioningly at Sherlock.

“Magic, John. Akkadian sorcery. Work a spell into a trinket, something small and unique to warrant fond placement in a home. Your Highness, what has been said in this room? What could this box have heard?”

“Nothing. Not to do with the war. It is almost always just me in here.”

“This has to be it, nothing else makes sense. How does it work?” Sherlock takes the box back from John and examines it from every angle, looking for any clue to its exact purpose. It isn’t meant to listen to words. Can it see? What would it learn from just watching? How else could it possibly be gathering information?

A tidbit of sound from John and Sybille’s earlier conversation in the front room surfaces to the forefront of his thoughts. He had not been listening, but his ears had heard and his mind remembered. They were talking about sleep and dreams. Sybille was upset by how much of her nights had become consumed with thoughts of the war, both waking and sleeping.

_Is that even possible?_

_It has to be._

_Oh, that is amazing!_

“Dreams. It reads your dreams.”

“Her dreams? How can you possibly know that?”

“I don’t. Not completely. But it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Sherlock, there is no way the courts will accept magic as a method without hard evidence.”

“No, but precedence is on our side and sorcerers are still human. There is proof to be found if we are diligent.”

Now that the Dauphine has had a few moments to process everything, she is handling this invasion of her privacy impressively well. Sherlock thinks for a moment before addressing her. “We need to lie to it, Your Highness. To feed it false information. If we catch our suspect sending out information that could only have come from you through this spell, we have our proof.”

“And with proof, the courts will convict him of treason.”

“Yes, Your Highness, they will.”

“Then tell me what I need to do.” Steel and fury, indeed.

Sherlock smiles and starts laying out his plan.  


	13. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays! I hope yours were wonderful and full of love. :)
> 
> One quick Kushiel note: Trois Milles Joies is essentially the D'Angeline Kama Sutra. 
> 
> As always, huge thanks to Fascinated for betaing. You are a slayer of anachronisms and awkward syntax. There is one other acknowledgement posted at the end of the chapter to avoid spoilers. 
> 
> On to the chapter!

There is no way to tell how quickly the spell is able to extract thoughts, or how many nights it must do so before the person on the other end deems the information accurate. Given that, Sherlock knows his plan may take a few days to come to fruition. He and John spend the remainder of the day after leaving the Dauphine’s apartments making sure that everything and everyone is ready to act at a moment’s notice when the time comes. They consult Mycroft to make sure they aren’t inadvertently sending real plans, and to put the Ambassador under watch while at the palace. They fill in Lestrade, who makes Sherlock swear to alert the guard before doing anything “stupid”. Lestrade also puts the guard on alert throughout the city in hopes of catching the messenger before Sherlock has a chance to put himself in danger. Amused by the idea of that, Sherlock spends a couple of hours wandering the city late in the day looking for beggars, waifs, and other dregs of society. John follows along protectively and obviously baffled by this last errand.

“They are my eyes and ears all over the city. For a very small investment on my part, I will know within minutes when our messenger appears.” A man curled up in the doorway of a closed shop asks if they can spare any change or food. Sherlock drops a small package into his hands as they pass. The man smiles and nods familiarly to Sherlock.  

“That is _really_ clever, Sherlock.”

This time, Sherlock doesn’t try to hide the grin that spreads across his face. 

The sun is far below the horizon as they make their way finally back to Baker Street. There is nothing to do at this point except wait for news, a prospect that for once Sherlock finds exciting. He looks over to John, to _his_ John, and he is practically giddy with energy at the thought of a day or two free from obligations.

**~ ~ ~**

The sun is brutally hot, and John can’t breathe without inhaling gritty sand. It seems like he’s been fighting forever. He doesn’t remember when his sword first struck home, but he knows that he must keep fighting or something horrible and unthinkable will happen.

“John.”

He knows Sebby is right beside him – it is a habit for both of them that months of war have not broken – and he searches for his ward in his peripheral vision as his sword brings yet another enemy to the ground. He sees him close, but then in an instant he is leagues away, far too great a distance for John to cross quickly.

“John.”

He tries. He plows through endless foes trying, crying out for Sebby and screaming in fear and frustration as he does. But he is not close enough to intervene when the boy falls.

“John, please. Wake up.”

Everything is chaos – screaming, blood, sand, flashes of Sebby everywhere but never somewhere John can reach. He knows he must try. If only he can fight through to him, it’s not too late. It can’t be too late.      

He screams loudly, crying out in wordless anguish.

“John!”

His eyes fly open to find himself sitting up in a bed in a dark room. His mind is caught between torment of the dream and confusion over unfamiliar surroundings. His body shudders and he crumples over into sobbing tears. Long, slender arms wrap around his torso from behind, holding him close against warmth and a beating heart.

“It’s alright. I have you. You’re safe.” Words spoken softly to the back of John’s neck as Sherlock rests his forehead against mussed blonde hair.

Sherlock. John grasps the arms around his center. He holds on tightly as reality settles in around him. Another dream. Just another dream. Moments pass as John finds his way back to now, to here. To Sherlock.

He slumps into Sherlock’s anchoring presence, laying his head back on the other man’s shoulder. His voice is rough and cracking when he speaks. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

John feels the rumble of Sherlock’s voice against his back, the movement of Sherlock’s lips near his ear. It is comforting and sensual, and just a bit overwhelming. John’s words tumble out as tears stream from his closed eyes.

“I don’t know how to make them stop.”

Arms tighten around him and lips press a gentle kiss onto his temple. “Shh. We’ll figure it out. I promise you.”

John fights the urge to curl in on himself and block everything out like he usually does on these nights. He has spent countless hours staring at a dark ceiling trying vehemently to not think or feel or be anything because going back to sleep is never an option and neither is letting his mind wander.

But this time he is not alone.

He takes a deep breath and then another. He stays wrapped up safely in Sherlock’s arms, which are holding him together in more ways than one, until his heart slows to its regular pace. The lingering images of his nightmare begin to fade and the knots in his stomach relax. He sits up and turns so he can see Sherlock’s face. There is one worry that he can’t push out of his mind, one fear that will cause everything to fall apart again. “And if there is nothing that helps? What if I am just broken, and that’s it?”

Sherlock looks directly at him with worried eyes. “Then I will be here, every time. You won’t face it alone ever again.”  

John opens his mouth to speak, but can find no words. His eyes brim with tears and a million expressions flash across his face.

“Come here.” Sherlock slides across the bed to lay his head on a pillow and stretch out.  He is still almost fully clothed, which means that he didn’t come to bed tonight until he heard John. He tugs on John’s hand for him to follow, and John curls himself around Sherlock’s slender body and rests his head on his chest. Sherlock wraps one arm around John, holding him close, and with the other he manages to grab the corner of a discarded blanket to toss over them both.

“Go to sleep. I will keep you safe.”

Exhausted, John is calmed by Sherlock’s heartbeat steady in his ear. He plays those words over and over again in his mind – _I will be here, every time –_ until they block out the screams and blood and war clawing to get back in. Sherlock holds him tightly and he finally slips into a deep, dreamless sleep.

~ ~ ~

Sherlock sits in a chair by the fire mindlessly picking at the strings on his violin. John is sitting with his back to him at the writing desk penning a letter to his sister, as he has been for most of an hour. He just started again after tossing yet another crumpled attempt onto the pile near his feet. Sherlock is intrigued by how much John seems to care for his sibling’s opinion of him given how rarely he speaks of her. He offered to help after the third piece of paper hit the floor, and was turned away by a disgruntled protest that John could handle explaining things to his own sister. So Sherlock sits and plucks out a slow melody and lets his mind wander.

These lulls in work are always interesting to navigate. It is almost inevitable that at some point during a case he will be stuck waiting on a vital clue – a response to a letter to be delivered, an informant or witness to arrive in the city, a trap to be sprung. There is always something that holds up his work. But even knowing this, his mind refuses to let him completely rest until the case is resolved. He has made it habit to keep a constant round of experiments and projects going in his flat so that there is always something to distract him for a few days if necessary. In fact, last night he was working on identifying the last few samples for his catalogue of different types of cigar ash. At least until John started screaming. Sherlock slept for a few hours after that, more than enough to keep him going for several days, and now he is wide awake and alert. He should be observing his other experiments; there is much he could accomplish today. But John is here, and he is far more fascinating a subject of observation.

Between the distraction of the case and John’s desire to move slowly, they had been practically chaste since John came back from the monastery. Sherlock is willing to wait, but his mind is continually filling with the many things he wants to do to John’s body. He leisurely entertains one idea after another while plucking away at violin strings.  Perhaps he would find his old copy of _Trois Milles Joies_ and simply start from page one. That would be an interesting study in patience for both of them.

It is no surprise to Sherlock when his imaginings cause a bodily response. Rather than pounce on his unsuspecting flat mate, he redirects his mind by standing and picking up his bow off the mantle to play. He starts with the ballad he was plucking out, a song from his childhood in the countryside of Kusheth. It is a quaint and occasionally bawdry tale of a village boy’s search for love, and has a simple enough melody that it was one of the first he learned to play from memory. At the second chorus, he starts playing around with the notes, making the simple melody more intricate and deep. By the end of the third verse he is almost completely improvising, just letting his fingers and his bow move where they wish. The music takes on a seductive quality, mirroring the desire in his heart and mind. He closes his eyes and lets the notes purge his emotions. His bow moves with measured strokes as his fingers move deftly over the neck of the instrument. He brings the music to a crescendo and final turbulent climax. A few bars more and the simple Kusheline tune is pulled back out of the larger melody. Sherlock finishes with the last note of the original ballad, quiet and soft across the strings.    

When he lowers the instrument and opens his eyes, he is facing the writing desk. John is turned halfway around in his chair, looking at him with an expression that Sherlock can’t quite identify.

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

John’s voice is low and rough. “No, that was amazing.” He pauses to clear his throat before continuing. “Mrs. Hudson said that you played, but I had no idea. Really, it was beautiful.”

Adoration.  John was looking at him with adoration. Sherlock thinks he could very easily get used to that. He smiles and picks another piece from the repertoire in his head. When he places the violin under his chin again, John leaves his failed attempts at letter writing behind and moves to a chair by the fire to listen. Sherlock starts playing a work by one of his favorite composers, a soft and truly lovely solo piece for violin. He sees John close his eyes and lean back in his chair, completely relaxed. After last night the way John screamed will forever be burned into Sherlock’s mind, so the sight of him happy and at peace makes Sherlock’s heart ache with love. Yes, he could definitely get used to this. 

~ ~ ~

Later that night, Sherlock follows John to bed. He reaches for John’s hand as he steps onto the bedside rug and pulls him in close to his chest. Slender fingers are instantly at John’s waist, slipping just barely underneath his shirt, making his stomach muscles quiver. John smiles and slips his hands across Sherlock’s shoulders and around his neck, fingers entwining dark braids. Sherlock leans down until mere centimeters separate their lips. Heavy-lidded storm blue eyes look into John’s and he forgets to breathe.

“May I?”

John doesn’t think he will ever in his life be able to say no to those words, from those lips, in that voice. “Yes. Please.”

In an instant, Sherlock’s lips are crushing into his as cool hands grab his hips firmly. _Oh, Elua._ John grips Sherlock’s head, pulling him closer and slipping his tongue into his mouth. Sherlock pushes on his hips, forcing him to step back until he can feel the mattress against the back of his legs. Another push and he loses his balance, falling onto the bed. Their lips part for a beat as John slides back on the mattress, but Sherlock follows closely, straddling John’s waist and bracing his weight on his elbows as he leans down to nip at John’s lower lip. John slides his hands under Sherlock’s shirt and splays his hands across his lower back, kneading into taught muscles as Sherlock’s lips and teeth move to his jaw and then his neck.

“I could do this for hours.” Amused low baritone against his skin sends sharp tendrils of pleasure into his belly. He slides his hands up, bringing the shirt with them, eager to discard of the cloth between them. Teeth sink in to John’s neck and he moans loudly, bucking his hips up against Sherlock’s weight. Sherlock growls and bites again. John’s responding whimper seems to please him, and he makes a contented humming noise as he sits up to pull off his shirt.

John takes advantage of the reprieve to do the same, tossing his shirt somewhere on the floor, then rests his hands on Sherlock’s thighs and marvels at the magnificent specimen of human kneeling above him and removing clothing. Sherlock’s eyes fall on the angry scar marring John’s left shoulder and chest and his eyebrows crinkle in concern.

“It was painful.” Not a question. 

“Very.”

Sherlock runs his fingers along the scar lightly, and leans over to place gentle, sensual kisses in the center of it. He murmurs unintelligible words close to John’s skin that sound like a prayer, sending shivers down John’s spine. John lays his head back into the mattress and closes his eyes. Tears come unbidden as Sherlock starts trailing soft kisses across his chest.

_An oathsworn sinner places his fate in the hands of Kushiel’s scion._

His breathing grows ragged as gentle lips turn into urgent teeth and tongue quickly moving down his belly. Legs slip in between his and kneel on the mattress. Fingers slide beneath the waist of his trousers, pulling them down and off. Tongue and lips and teeth hungrily kiss just inside his right hip. He cries out, and Sherlock hesitates.

“Don’t stop. Please.”  

_Don’t ever stop._

A wet tongue licks up the length of John’s phallus, and his breath hitches. Sherlock wraps his lips around the tip and sinks slowly down, engulfing John in warmth, and the neurons for cognitive thought in John’s brain stop firing. An entirely unhuman sound escapes from his lips. He reaches for Sherlock, desperate for some piece of him to hold on to as lips and tongue move in a rhythm coaxing the fire in his groin to spread into his chest and up his neck. Sherlock’s hand finds his and he grasps it, grounding himself with fingers wrapped tightly around a slender forearm. Sherlock hums and sucks and does things with his tongue that have John shaking and moaning and mumbling incoherently for what seems like an absolutely blissful eternity.

Then fingers wrap around the base of his phallus while lips and tongue move faster over the top. The mattress disappears and John is falling deeper into his own skin, swirling towards the raging fire just there, just a little farther down. _Oh gods._ Every time he gets close, Sherlock shifts just slightly, holding him there at the precipice and refusing to let him fall. 

“Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock looks up at him, but keeps massaging and caressing with his hand. His lips are red and wet, his eyes blazing clear steel-blue. “Mmm. Please, what?”

Their eyes meet and John is almost undone. He tries to speak but only strangled noises come out. Keeping a slower but steady motion with his hand on John’s now slick phallus Sherlock moves up and nips him lightly just beneath his ear. At some point Sherlock had discarded his own trousers, because John could feel him hard against his thigh. “Tell me.”

John takes a deep, shuddering breath and whispers, “Please. Let me finish.”

Sherlock grins and grips John’s phallus tighter, moves a little faster. John lays his head back against the mattress and scrambles with his fingers for purchase in the sheets. Sherlock lowers his head to John’s neck, ghosting lips across the skin between his collar bones. One heartbeat, then another. Sherlock’s hand moves faster. Another. _Elua!_ Another. John screams, begging for release.

Finally, desperately, frantically John falls towards engulfing flames. He is vaguely aware of sounds coming from his mouth. Every nerve ending in his body is alive with pleasure and heat, every muscle tense and shaking. He cries out, grinding into Sherlock as sticky heat spurts onto both of them. The flames reach him and consume him whole.

Words of adoration are whispered in his ear as he finds his way back to himself.

When he opens his eyes, Sherlock is stretched out next to him on his side with his head propped up on one hand and his other hand resting lightly across John’s stomach.

"You are amazing, John.”      

John laughs and runs fingers through sweaty hair. “I don’t think I actually did anything during that. That was. Elua, Sherlock!”

“Let me teach you. It would be fascinating.”

“Teach me?”

“How to do what I did. Would you like to learn?” 

John looks at Sherlock. Lean muscles covered with pale flushed skin. A hard phallus taught against his belly. Braids hopelessly mussed, eyes turning stormy again.

“Oh yes.”

Sherlock grins and lies on his back, tugging John on top of him.

Later, when they are sleeping as a tangled mass of sticky, sweaty limbs, John dreams of the noises Sherlock made. The words of guidance murmured low from his chest, the moans and quickening breath that told John he was doing things right. Raspy breaths and unintelligible words as fingers gripped the back of his head and pushed him deeper onto Sherlock’s phallus. The screaming moan as Sherlock spent himself into the back of John’s throat. His name breathed out, a prayer, a benediction, as tense muscles finally relax and sink into the bed.               

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely could not have written this chapter without QuinnAnderson's 'The Ultimate Guide to Writing Smut Fic.' It is an excellent resource, worth referencing whenever you are writing sexy things.


	14. Revelation

 

Sherlock leans back in the tub, letting the hot water seep into pleasantly exhausted muscles, and methodically untangles his hair. After spending the better part of the day in bed with John his braids are far beyond saving, and since he sincerely hopes to be spending quite a lot _more_ time in bed with John, he decides to forgo a trip to the family’s townhouse for one of his cousins to redo them. So he soaks, and he pulls braids, and he thinks.

Sex has almost always been synonymous with prayer for Sherlock, his choice of homage to the gods of Terre D’Ange. But this! It was as though, for the first time, his devotions were heard and he was blessed for them.The day was brilliant. John was absolutely beautiful. By the time John came of age he had already been well ensconced in a Cassiline monastery, leaving him grievously uneducated in Naamah’s arts and trained to ignore any emotions connected to them. At moments throughout the day Sherlock remembered this, that he was the only person on earth to know John this way, and he was overcome with humbleness so different from his normal state of being that it was intoxicating. He held back on his more Kusheline nature, things that should be left until after boundaries are set and rules agreed to, and relished in the simple eroticism of exploring a new partner. _New, and perfect, and mine._

And oh! The times he did slip a little. When he yanked hard on blond hair to expose a trembling throat. When he growled commands with no doubt that they would be followed. When he grabbed wrists tightly and pushed them down into the bed. Those were the times when John was breathtaking. He reacted to forceful advances in ways Sherlock had only seen in Valerian House adepts, and John was not raised into it from childhood as they were. No, he seemed as naturally suited to the yielding role as Sherlock was to the dominant one. And that was divine.

Finally freeing the last lock of hair, Sherlock goes about the rest of his bath lost in memories of the day. A while later he is scrubbing a towel through loose, wet curls as he walks out into the bedroom. John had gone downstairs to see about their dinner, and since Sherlock doesn’t hear any movement in the flat he assumes Mrs. Hudson has trapped John in conversation for a while. He decides to get properly dressed for the first time today so it is a few more minutes before he opens the door leading to the front room.

John is sitting in a chair by the fire and doesn’t turn around when Sherlock walks in. There is an open letter and a small package on the table next to him. Sherlock reaches out to touch him as he walks by towards the other chair, but stops when he sees the tense set to John’s shoulders.

“John?”

“Who is Molly?”

“Who?” _How on earth? Elua, we are not ready for this conversation._

“Molly. You dropped your cloak pin when you were last with her. The Dowayne of Valerian House was kind enough to send it back to you today. Who is she?”

Sherlock drops into his chair, searching John’s face for he doesn’t know what. Something other than the anger and fear that is nearly tangible in the air around them. “She is an adept of Valerian House, and a friend. I’ve been going to her for several years. John, you have to have known -”

“I do know. It would be absurd to expect someone like you to not be familiar with the Night Court. I know that I am far from your first, and that I’ve only seen the very beginning of that part of you. But this isn’t some past love, Sherlock! You were there three nights ago! Do you know where I went when I left here that night?” John is seething with anger, it drips off his words and blazes in his eyes.

“John.”  _You don’t understand._

“I went to Elua’s temple. I spent that night in the frigid cold, _pleading_ to the gods for guidance. _You_ went running to a courtesan. I chose you over _everything_ that I was! But when you lost me, you just found someone else to bed!”

Of course Cassiel’s children would have a monogamous view of love. After all, Cassiel himself had eyes only for Blessed Elua. _How do I tell him that real love can be so much more complex and terrifying and beautiful than that? How do I make him not hate me for this?_

“I would have followed you if I had thought it would do any good. But I wasn’t what you needed. It would have gone badly.” 

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” _If I had followed you that night, and caught you, I would have devoured you._ “John, I don’t go to temples. I don’t need statues and priests and incense when I speak to the gods. My prayers are immersed in lust and desire and pain. And they are not for advice, but for quiet. For the cacophony of the world to be silent so I can think. That night Molly wasn’t a just a lover, John, she was the voice for my prayers. I needed to _think_ and she brought me the quiet I needed to do so, just as your prayers brought you the guidance you asked for.”

John is silent for a moment. He is calmer, but anger still shows in the creases around his eyes and the harsh set to his jaw.

“Do you love her?”

_How could I not, John?_

“I trust her. And yes, I love her. She has been my salvation more times than I can count, that night included.” Sherlock pauses, trying to think of the right words. “But she is not you, John. She is a servant of Naamah and an anguisette marked by Kushiel himself. And she does not come close to _you_.”

Sherlock catches John’s gaze and they sit looking at each other in silence. Finally John takes a deep breath and looks away, scrubbing fingers through his hair. When he looks back at Sherlock, his eyes are guarded. “I need time to think through this. I’m sorry.”

“You’re leaving.” 

“No. I told you that I am here no matter what. I meant that. Just give me room to sort through it all, all right?”

“John, I-”

“Please, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, then nods and stands up. Not quite sure what to do with himself, he goes downstairs and out into the late afternoon. He walks down Baker Street towards the river, his brow crinkling with worry as he thinks.

Later, he walks back past lamplighters who are finishing their work for the night. When he is a door away from home, a shadow moves in his peripheral vision.

“Spare coins, m’lord?”

“Of course.” Sherlock hands the girl a small bag of coins and she slips him a folded piece of paper. Sherlock quickly reads the note and sprints towards 221B and through the front door.

“John!”

~ ~ ~

John is jolted from his thoughts by Sherlock calling his name and storming up the stairs. He bursts through the door seconds later.

“John! We have to go. Now. He is being tailed as we speak.”

The urgency in Sherlock’s voice strikes a chord in John’s Cassiline-trained mind, and he quickly arms himself and grabs his cloak. His eyes meet Sherlock’s as they head towards the stairs and both men pause for the briefest moment, a heartbeat.

“Later, Sherlock. We have to go.”

“I know.”

Then it is down the stairs, quick instructions to Mrs. Hudson to alert the city guard, pushing the note into her hands, and they are out, running through the streets of the city. John has no idea yet where they are going, so he just focuses on not losing sight of Sherlock. He slips easily into his role as protector, concerned for nothing but the safety of his ward. It is known, it is who he is at his core. It lets him step away from the rage and jealousy and fear and _need_ that are burning through his heart, threatening to consume him. And for that, he is most grateful.  

After taking several turns and crossing a bridge, Sherlock comes to a stop outside of a row of townhouses on the outskirts of the Palace District. While they are catching their breath, John instinctively checks their surroundings. They are standing at the entrance to the alley they just ran down, and opening in front of them is a square of houses that back up to the river at the end of a street. Every other alley opening to the square is blocked by a locked gate, making this one and the street itself the only two possible exits short of going through one of the homes.

“We’re early. He’ll be here soon.”     

“Would you like to tell me what we’re doing exactly?”

“A messenger in unmarked livery was seen leaving the ambassador’s house. My brilliant waifs and beggars, oh! I will have to thank them immensely for this. They are herding him! A coughing, sick old woman on a corner, too many beggars pleading for coins down a street, violent-looking men in an alley. We have no hint as to where he wants to go, but they will ensure that he ends up exactly here, any moment now. And the only option he will have to continue on his way will be this alley. Quickly, John. We should be ready.”

Sherlock grabs his hand and tugs him back down the alley away from the light of streetlamps. The contact sends tendrils of warmth up John’s arm and into his chest. He clenches his jaw and pushes them away.

There are quick footsteps at the opening to the square, a man cursing under his breath. John can barely see the smirk on Sherlock’s face in the dim light, and then Sherlock is stepping out in front of the messenger. John reacts in an instant, and places himself to block any escape back into the square.   

“Good evening. I don’t mean you any harm, but I do need to see the message you are carrying, if you don’t mind.”

The man doesn’t say a word. He turns away from Sherlock to run and sees John looming dark in the streetlight with his hands resting on dagger hilts. He draws his own knife, but hesitates before attacking. Then in a sudden motion he spins and bolts away, slicing his blade into Sherlock’s side as he rushes past.

Sherlock screams and stumbles back into the wall, hand griping his abdomen, and time stops. John is at his side in two strides, his hands flying to the growing red stain on Sherlock’s shirt _._

_No._

Sherlock presses his hand over the wound and takes a deep breath before straightening up. His voice is tight and pained when he speaks.

“Come on. We can’t lose him.”

“Sherlock -”

“I’m fine. I promise.” And with that he turns and runs, and John has no choice but to follow.  Sherlock never loses the trail, and his injury has only slowed him down slightly. They catch sight of the messenger as he is going through the back gate of a residence near the side gates to the city. John rushes in, a step behind Sherlock, prayers to Cassiel for protection on his lips, directly into a courtyard where five private guardsmen have their blades drawn and leveled to strike. The messenger is leaning against the door to the house, breathing hard but smiling.

In one instant, three things happen. John crosses his arms and draws his daggers from their sheaths. The guard closest to Sherlock lunges forward, blade aimed at Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock slips to the left of the blade, but loses his balance and falls hard to the ground, clutching his side with a cry of pain. In the next instant, John’s vision shifts to spheres within spheres, muscles and motions, a battle field of sand and heat. The guard that attacked Sherlock is disarmed and on the ground in three heartbeats. John turns to the other four, marking their locations in his mind as his blades spin out into a defensive form. The frozen city courtyard flashes with brilliant sun, the smell of blood. The guard farthest to his right moves forward and it begins.

John dispatches the first two quickly with injuries that will keep them on the ground but alive. The third lays down his sword in surrender as the fourth charges John with his sword held high. This one is twice John’s size and muscular. His weight alone could tip the balance and the sword’s reach all but ensures it. John sheathes his daggers and draws his great sword with quick, fluid motions, bracing himself for the impact. He catches the weight of the blow and pushes it back as horses and men scream loud in his ears. As soon as he is free, he spins and sinks the length of his sword into the guard’s belly. Blood drips from his blade as he pulls it out and the guard drops to his knees. The man’s face blurs with a hundred others, the blood pouring from his wound hits both cobblestone and sun-bleached sand.

He turns back towards Sherlock. The messenger is still by the door, now frozen with fear. Sherlock is sitting against the wall. His face is pained and too pale, but his awestruck eyes speak volumes. John tastes sand in his mouth.

There is a commotion in the street behind them, and Lestrade is in the courtyard issuing commands. John sinks to his knees on the ground next to Sherlock. Sherlock glances at him, concerned, but keeps his distance. The message is confiscated and proven to be the false one sent out by the Dauphine. The four living guards and the messenger are taken into custody for questioning. The body of the fifth is carted away. Men are sent to detain the master of the house as a possible accomplice in treason. A chirugeon is summoned to clean and stitch Sherlock’s wound, and Lestrade starts asking Sherlock questions. John tunes them out. He slows his breathing, listens for his heartbeat to follow, and tries very hard to not think.

 _Just hold yourself together, Watson. It’s not real. You’re home. You’re safe._  

Eventually he stands and retrieves his sword, wiping away the worst of the blood with his cloak before sliding it into the scabbard across his back. Rote actions, muscles moving without thought. But then he looks at Sherlock, bandaged and being helped to his feet by Lestrade, and all of his thoughts and emotions come rushing back in.

_I could have lost him._

Images of life without Sherlock lay themselves out before him, bringing tears to his eyes.

_Oh, Elua._

On his feet again, Sherlock quickly excuses them both from the scene and ushers John out to the street. He is obviously in pain, his gait slow as he starts to walk home. “There will be things we must see to tomorrow, but for tonight I think we have done our part. We aren’t far from home now, just a few streets away.”

John nods and follows. They walk in silence down one street and around a corner. He can tell Sherlock is trying to read him without looking directly at him.

“Sherlock, wait.”

Sherlock stops walking and turns towards him. His eyes are sharp, taking in every detail.

 _I have been finding my way to you since I returned from Carthage. When the clamor of war goes quiet in my mind, it is you that replaces it. Your arms wrapping around me when the nightmares come. You kissing me. You breathing prayers over my skin. You that will_ always _bring me back home. Nothing else matters compared to that._

 _How do I_ say _that?_

Sherlock must see something in his face, some hint in the way he is standing. Without speaking, he grabs John by the shoulders and pulls him in close to his chest, enveloping him in his embrace. John buries his face into Sherlock’s neck and slides his arms tight around his waist, being mindful of bandages. He speaks words into pale skin, “I cannot live without you. You as you are, nothing changed.”

“You will never have to.”

They stay this way for several moments, neither wanting to pull away. When they finally start walking again, John slips under Sherlock’s shoulder with an arm around his waist to help support him.

“I want you to understand, John, not just accept. When you’re ready, I want you to share that part of my life.”

A fire sparks low in John’s belly at the thought. He has limited knowledge of Kushiel’s brand of love, but he knows in an instant that he would gladly and eagerly submit to any of it simply because it is Sherlock who is asking him to do so. He clears his throat before speaking. “I would like that. But tonight you are resting and healing. I refuse to hear otherwise.”

Sherlock smiles and leans a bit more on John as they walk the remaining blocks to home.

  


	15. As Thou Wilt

John stands just inside the Queen’s garden, where Sybille’s guard asked him to wait. It is early, the pale light of morning just now finding the last lingering shadows to chase away. Mycroft had been waiting when John and Sherlock returned to Baker Street last night, and did not wish to delay in moving forward with an arrest. Given that soldiers were dying because of Ambassador Shaheen’s treachery, John appreciated his expediency, but he wanted to be certain Sybille heard everything from him first. 

The Dauphine enters the garden and John smiles at her and bows as she approaches.

“Good morning, Your Highness. I hope you’ll forgive the early call.”

“Of course. You have news?” Her voice is eager, and she reaches out to touch John’s arm. Her fingers are always so cold in the winter. John takes both of her hands in his, wrapping his warmth around them.

“I do. Would you walk with me?”

Sybille slips her arm through his, and they start down one of the garden’s wandering paths. John tells her all that transpired regarding the case since they last spoke. He leaves out some things – how plans can go tragically wrong with the flick of a knife, how frigid courtyards can burn with a desert sun – but he tells her everything she would need or want to know.

“The Ambassador is being arrested as we speak. Mycroft will bring proof to Parliament before the day is out, and a trial will begin in a few days.”

“Is there any chance that he will be found innocent?”

“Mycroft has assured us that there is not.” 

She leans towards John, resting her head on his shoulder. They walk silently for several moments before she speaks again. “Without the ambushes, the army will be able to advance and end the war. The country will heal and move on from this.” She hesitates a moment before continuing. “As the Dauphine, that makes me happy. But I still hear him, John. I can feel him when I close my eyes. I see him smiling at me from a corner, or laying in the moonlight on my bed. I will think things are getting better. Days, weeks will go by and I will be all right. Then some reminder will hit and twist a little differently than all the rest and suddenly I can’t breathe through the grief. How am I supposed to face life without him?”

Her voice catches at the end as she tries to hold back her emotions. John stops walking and turns towards her. She is young to have so much responsibility on her shoulders, and it is so easy to forget that she is just a girl, one who has forever lost the greatest love she’s known. John wipes away the one tear that slipped through her resolve and speaks gently.

“Sybille de la Courcel, you are descended from Blessed Elua himself. Yes, that means you will one day wear the crown. The people of Terre D’Ange do not know how fortunate they are in that. But it also means you are Elua’s child. He will not let your life be one of sadness, love. I promise. You will find love again, and Sebastian will be so happy for you when you do.”

“Do you really believe that? That he would want me to find someone else?”

“I am certain of it. He would want you to smile and laugh and _live_ enough for the both of you. He would never want you to be alone.”

She smiles a small, sad smile. “I don’t know what I would do without you, John.”

“Probably spend a lot less time wandering outside in the cold.”

His humor works, and she laughs. “Truly, though. You must come visit me often. Sherlock as well. I like him, and seeing you happy gives me so much hope.”

“Both of us would be honored to visit whenever you wish.” John glances up at the sun rising higher in the sky, and takes Sybille’s arm in his to start back the way they came. “I imagine Mycroft will bring this news to the King soon, and you will have a long day ahead of you once Parliament is called to session.”

“I have had nothing but long days since the first invaders set foot on our soil. After today, though, the war will end and Sebby’s murderer will be held accountable. It is the beginning of peace, and I can find joy in that.” John smiles in response and she continues with a happier tone. “You should tell me about your Lord Shahrizai. How did he win the heart of Sebby’s pious warrior?”

John laughs, and spends the remainder of the walk attempting to assuage the girl’s curiosity without sounding too much like a lovestruck youth. By the time they reach the garden’s entrance, she is smiling and laughing as he talks.

“And you are happy?”

“I am. A part of me may always be lost in the deserts of Carthage, but as long as I am with him, that doesn’t matter. He is my home and my sanity.”

“Then I am truly happy for you.” Sybille steps away from him and kisses him softly on the cheek. “Thank you, John. For letting me hear of the arrests on my own before I have to hear of them in front of everyone. Please tell Sherlock I am most grateful for everything.”

“You’re welcome, Your Highness. And I will tell him.”

She smiles her farewell and turns to go. As she walks away her demeanor shifts. She stands straighter, carries herself more assuredly. When she turns the corner into the palace halls, John catches a glimpse of her face. Her expression is pleasant and polite, but her eyes spark with cold anger. The emotional girl has been left safe in the garden with John. The Dauphine Sybille de la Courcel goes to face a traitor and bring her army home.

    

~ ~ ~

John insists that Sherlock not do anything strenuous for the weeks it takes his abdomen to heal cleanly. The trial comes and goes as expected. The former ambassador is sentenced to execution for treason, along with two D’Angelines found to be equally involved. Those with fewer charges against them are exiled. Pain is a constant for Sherlock but he finds it easy enough to ignore most days. He learns quickly that if he lets John fuss about him during the day without too many complaints, he can usually convince him that some movement at night will not kill him. The gentle rhythms John holds them to in their bed are excruciating and exquisite all at once, and afterwards Sherlock sleeps deeply, dreaming of silk ropes, sharp blades and a Cassiline undone.

A month passes before the chirurgeon declares Sherlock healed. Two days later, he is walking down the familiar stairwell at the back of Valerian House. He has rarely been away this long, and knowing Molly has missed him as well makes his muscles quiver with energy. Pausing at the altar, he opens the door in his mind to Kushiel’s space, focusing his desire into to a razor sharp lust. He feels alive and whole, and he is eager to feel leather and steel and trembling skin in his hands again.

As he stands, he watches John following his lead. John smiles up at him, his eyes uncertain. He is also shaking, imperceptible to anyone else, but Sherlock has spent weeks studying John, learning his reactions and movements and emotions. Sherlock brushes his hand across John’s cheek and then slips his fingers into the hair at the back of his neck. He can feel John’s quickened pulse under his palm. He lowers his head until their foreheads meet, and John responds by sliding his hands onto Sherlock’s hips.

“Breathe, John.”

John laughs. “I know. It’s all just a little surreal.”

“I imagine it probably is. Is this still what you want?”

“Yes. I need to see you like this without me. I will feel better joining you if I know something about it, about you, first.”

Sherlock tilts John’s head up and slides his tongue softly, sensually between his lips. He kisses John deeply, leisurely exploring the tantalizing familiarity of John’s mouth with his tongue. John moans softly, leans into the kiss, and runs his hands around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him closer. Sherlock feels John’s body push into his, and stomps down the raging, gnawing need to _have/hurt/devour_ that rises from his belly. There will be time for that later. He pulls away from the kiss, holding John’s head in his hands.

“It’s just me. No matter how far we go with this, tonight or any other, it will always just be me, and I will always stop with a word from you. I have you John, I promise. You just have to let go.”

John looks at Sherlock, his eyes searching and vulnerable. Sherlock releases his hands, sliding them down to John’s shoulders, and holds his gaze, waiting patiently for him to find what it is he is looking for. Finally, the corner of John’s mouth curls in the hint of a smile. He clears his throat before speaking quietly. “We shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

Sherlock presses a soft kiss onto John’s lips before he steps out of his embrace and they walk down the hall. When they reach the chamber door, he catches John’s eyes, lets him watch as the final locks are opened in a scion of Kushiel’s mind.

_It’s still me John. See?_

_Elua, you are magnificent._

Sherlock’s eyes take in every inch of John hungrily. When he looks back up, John’s skin is flushed, his eyes wide and bright. Sherlock gives him a wicked smile and opens the door.

_You will ask me soon to make you bleed and cry like she does, I am certain of it._

John follows him in and goes to sit on a large couch near the fireplace, nodding at Molly as he passes her. Molly, sitting perfectly _abeyante_ in the middle of the room wearing a sheer black gown, looks up at John without moving her head and smiles. _Good girl._ Sherlock watches them both as he removes his cloak and gloves. His lovely, sensual, fascinating anguissette and his brave, scarred, stubborn, beautiful warrior.

He slides the lock on the door and picks up Molly’s collar from the table near it, making a mental note to see a leatherworker soon about making one for John. Images fill his mind and make his stomach flutter in excitement. John kneeling next to Molly, both of them naked and waiting patiently for his commands. John in their bed at home, lashed to the corner post with bleeding welts across his back. He closes his eyes as the drumming of bronze wings fills his mind and courses through his veins, and when he opens them again every nerve in his body is on fire.

He motions for Molly to stand. “Come here, love. I have missed you.”

He fits the collar onto her slender neck. She trembles at his touch, and he hums contentedly. Looking directly at John across the room, he kisses Molly’s neck just below her jaw, letting his teeth graze soft skin. He can only imagine what it is John sees in his expression as he does, but the love and desire he sees reflecting back from John is a sight he will cherish for the rest of his days.


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On this last chapter, a thousand thanks to Fascinated – Without you, my story would be so much less beautiful.  
> And thanks to all of you. You guys are awesome, and have really made this first writing venture so much fun.

The streets of the market district are full of life as John walks home. Many of the peerage return to their country estates for the summer months, but he has never understood why. Here there are flowers blooming in a thousand colors from windows in every district; birds singing from trees in the parks; children running around corners, bare feet slapping on the warm cobblestones as they chase after their friends. Merchants sit outside their shop doors, chatting with neighbors or playing dice when business is slow. The river sparkles brightly in the sunlight, and the white palace walls are the shining beacon of a prosperous realm. A lord’s country estate is surely elegant in its own way, but it will never compare in John’s eyes to the vitality and color of summer in the City of Elua.  

John spent his morning joining the city guard in their combat drills. There have been blessedly few times in the months since leaving the Brotherhood that John has needed his blades, but it occurs often enough that he feels better with the regular practice in addition to his daily ritual of telling of the hours. And when things are quiet in the city, as they have been for a few weeks in spite of Sherlock’s dramatic pouting, Lestrade stays after for some one-on-one sparring. As a result, the Captain is getting significantly better with his own sword work, and today he took John down for the first time. John laughs quietly at the memory - Lestrade was almost more surprised than victorious - and savors the aching in his muscles that signifies a productive morning in the practice yard.

~ ~ ~

Sherlock looks down at the half-filled sheet of music in disgust before pulling his bow roughly across taut strings in a musical affront to the universe. He sets his violin in its case on the desk and drops into his chair by the fire with a huff of breath.

It has been weeks – _weeks_ _–_ since their last case. Sherlock worked through all of his existing experiments, and could not be inspired enough to start any new ones. He spent nights with Molly. He took John to their bed and refused to let him leave outside of biological necessity for three days. He played all of his favorite pieces, and all of John’s. He is even trying to compose a new one. But his brain is pleading, crying for _something_ to analyze, to solve, to study before it withers away into nothing and anything not _something_ is terrible. He has exhausted all of the tricks up his sleeve for keeping his mind occupied and life is becoming _boring._

The truly frustrating thing is that he knows what he needs, but he is afraid to reach for it. It is something he has thought about frequently, and his mind is choosing this moment of weakness to demand that and nothing else as a suitable distraction.

He needs John. John bleeding into the sheets, fine rivulets of blood trickling out from impossibly fine cuts. John’s eyes wide and brilliant, pleading for mercy in place of the voice he has screamed away. John farther gone than he has ever been, lead there by Sherlock.

Sherlock has been there with Molly on a number of occasions, but John is no anguissette. He could be seriously hurt, and Sherlock is always careful to remember that when they shift into harsher forms of love. But with a blade in his hand, it is too entrancing, too transcending. He is afraid he will forget. Especially now, when he is starved for stimulation and emotionally raw from days of stagnation.

  _John. It’s_ John. _My wayward Cassiline._

Sherlock looks over to the door, where a wooden cane has sat since it was returned that wonderful, horrible night by one of the city guard. He thinks of a palace meeting run late, of one specific letter falling to the ground out of a sheaf of a hundred, of a guard familiar with Baker Street being on duty in that particular courtyard on that particular day.

_The oathbreaker seeking salvation, put in my path by Kushiel._

He thinks of John’s breath catching as Sherlock pushed him into the wall of the common room that night. Of every time in recent months that John should have used his _signale,_ when any normal person would have, but he didn’t.

He thinks of bronze wings beating strong in his ears.

_John._

Of course he would remember. Of course he would keep John safe, even at the raw edges of reality. Kushiel has chosen him, tasked him with exactly this, and the gods do not make such choices lightly.

~ ~ ~  

Opening the door to 221b, John is happy to not hear violent, screeching violin strings. Why Sherlock thinks composing when he is agitated and bored is a good idea is beyond John, but the man had been at it since the early morning and didn’t seem to care that people might still be sleeping. Now the instrument is stowed safely in its case, and Sherlock is nowhere to be found. There is a note propped on a table by the door, written with a scrawling hand.

_I’ll be back by early afternoon. Not a case. – SS_

John unclasps his sword belt, hangs it on a hook by the door, and steps out of his boots. Wherever Sherlock ran off to, at least he’s doing something that involves getting dressed and maybe even interacting with people. And that left John with an hour or two to himself.

A short while later John leans back and rests his head on the edge of the bathtub. Steaming hot water works its way into tired muscles, lulling him to sleep. He closes his eyes and smiles, thinking of the last long bath he took. Sherlock had joined him, and by the time the water had grown cold, they were both far too preoccupied to care. Muscles relax, and John drifts away with thoughts of pale skin and moaning baritone weaving through his dreams. 

_~ ~ ~_

Sherlock takes note of the boots and daggers by the door when he comes in and smiles. He walks into the bedroom, slides out of his own boots, places a hinged wooden box on the table by the bed, and goes to stand quietly in the door of the bathroom. John opens heavy-lidded eyes to look at him, the hint of a smile curling his lips, and closes them again without saying a word. He must have had a good morning with the guard – confidence is radiating off of him, and it is ridiculously attractive.

Sherlock walks over and crouches behind John at the head of the tub. He runs his hands over muscular shoulders and down over a smooth chest, pale fingers contrasting sharply with sun-browned skin. He wraps his arms around him and nuzzles into his neck. John smells of open air, lavender soap, and clean sweat. It’s intoxicating. John makes a happy sound deep in his chest, and Sherlock stays this way for a moment just breathing. Then he pulls back a little and whispers directly into John’s ear, letting a commanding tone enter his voice that John will not mistake.

“There is no need for you to get dressed when you get out.”

John’s breath quickens and he opens his eyes. He turns his head towards Sherlock, but Sherlock stands so that John has to look up as well to see him. His expression – desire and fear mixed in perfect consonance across his brow, lips slightly open, pupils dilating - confirms that he knows where this is going.

“Don’t keep me waiting long, John.”

Sherlock walks back into the bedroom and picks out a black leather riding crop from their small flagellery and a length of silk rope from a drawer. He drops the rope on the corner of the mattress. Then he sits in an armchair across from the bathroom door and leans back, the crop in his right hand resting lightly across one knee. He glances at the box he brought in earlier and feels a stirring of warmth low in his belly. He closes his eyes and coaxes that warmth to fill his veins and flow through his heart. Locks click open in his mind, and when he opens his eyes again, everything is a bit brighter and sharper. A moment later and John is standing in the bathroom doorway, dried off but completely naked.     

_Oh, John. You are gorgeous._

John is all lean muscle, and were it not for the pale pink scar marring his chest and shoulder, you would never guess he had once been frail. The confidence he exuded in the bath is still there, but it is not so obvious. Some might mistake his slightly downcast eyes or his trembling stomach as weakness, but they would be wrong. John will carry their prayers to the feet of Kushiel himself, a journey that requires magnificent strength. There is confidence for John in yielding, and Sherlock was foolish to ever think he should be protected from true transcendence.

“On your knees.”

John sinks gracefully to the floor, _abeyante,_ and glances quickly at Sherlock’s face for approval before returning his gaze to the ground. Sherlock smiles as he gets up and walks over to John. He runs the soft leather at the end of the crop along the inside of John’s thigh, from his groin to his knee, and taps it against John’s knee once. John immediately spreads his knees farther apart so that Sherlock can see all of him.  

“You are so beautiful.” Sherlock walks around to stand behind John, trailing the crop across his shoulder and down his back. “Are you all right spending the day this way?”

“If it means that you are done torturing your poor violin, then yes.”

Sherlock smirks and swats John lightly on the buttocks. John laughs.

“Seriously, though. Yes. There is nowhere on earth I would rather be than here at your mercy.” John’s voice slides from playful to husky on his last words, making Sherlock grow hard against his trousers.

"Good. I retrieved my flechettes from Valerian House.” John’s stomach trembles and it is beautiful. “You’ve seen me use them with Molly. I’d like to see what I can do with them on you, if you’re willing.”

“Yes.”

“You will bleed, and the scars will be permanent. Are you certain?”

“Yes. I’ve thought about it before, watching you with her. I trust you and I want this.” John looks back at him, his eyes clear and calm. “Please.”

Sherlock holds his gaze, momentarily humbled by the thought that this extraordinary person, that _John_ , had been given to him, entrusted to _him_ to save. He is truly blessed, and can think of no better way to express his gratitude than what is about to occur. He gathers the rope from the bed and kneels behind John, slender fingers bring John’s wrists around to the curve of his back, working the rope around and between them to bind them together one on top of the other with a secure knot. John learned months ago that struggling against his bindings was pointless, but he still moves his wrists a little as Sherlock stands up, testing them. They are tighter than usual, and Sherlock relishes the moment that John realizes this, squares his shoulders and takes a shaky breath.

“Sit up, love.” John rises up on his knees, exposing his backside to Sherlock. When Sherlock lightly runs the end of the crop across his buttocks, John shivers and closes his eyes. His phallus grows taut against his belly and he drops his head to his chest. He makes a beautiful presentation, one that Sherlock is going to immensely enjoy unraveling into frayed threads.

Sherlock raises the crop in his right hand and swings it, hard and fast, hitting John high on the back of his leg. The impact would have sent sharp pain deep into his muscles, and it leaves a lovely red weal in its wake. John cries out and wobbles a bit and his breath grows heavier. The next one lands right on his buttocks and elicits another sharp, pained cry. Another swing, and another. A fifth one, drawn back at the last minute to send soft leather stinging around the side of his hips. John’s skin becomes a canvas of red, and Sherlock’s heart begins to race as more and more brushstrokes find their mark. He does not hold back, trusting himself and trusting John completely in this for perhaps the first time. John tumbles forward, catching himself on his good shoulder and pushing his face into the rug, but he does not use his _signale._ This new position, from Sherlock’s point of view behind him, is almost too much. Sherlock resists the urge to take him like this, trussed and helpless on the floor, and instead lands two more steady blows across the tender flesh where buttocks meet thigh before discarding the crop. He steps out of his trousers and tosses his shirt on a chair before walking around to John’s front and pulling him up from the floor by a fist in his hair.               

John is already drifting. His eyes shine a clear blue, with no thought or worry in them outside of what he must do to please Sherlock, to be rewarded with pain or pleasure or both. Sherlock is humming with energy himself, his phallus hard and aching. He releases John’s hair and runs his hand along his jawline, pulling him forward towards his groin. John smiles and wraps wet lips around Sherlock’s tip, massaging with his tongue as he slides down to take in almost all of him. Sherlock moans softly and lets John do what he wishes for a moment before grabbing his head again to hold it still as he thrusts forward. His phallus goes deep into John’s throat, which undulates warm and wet around him as John controls his gag reflex. With his arms still tied behind him, John has little purchase to regain control as Sherlock thrusts again and again into his throat. Sherlock finds a pounding rhythm, moving forcefully and holding John tightly as he grows closer to climax. Tears stream from John’s eyes and muffled noises try to escape from his lips, both of which strip away the last of Sherlock’s control. One final, deep thrust, and Sherlock releases himself with a moan into John’s throat, refusing to release his hold until he is completely spent.

When he does pull back and look down at John, his breath catches at the sight. John’s lips are bright red and overly wet with saliva, his cheeks flushed and stained with trails of tears. His throat is moving, swallowing and trying to regain a voice. His neglected phallus is rigid and glistening at the tip, and his entire body is quivering with need. His expression is one of pure lust, and Elua! His eyes burn fiercely and see absolutely nothing in the room but Sherlock. Sherlock has no need for drugs or cases when he can make John Watson look at him like that. He takes a moment to just observe while his heart and lungs slow and his mind clears. Then he takes a step back towards the bed and motions for John to follow.

“Come here.”

He leads John to stand beside the bed, stepping in close behind him to untie his hands as he places a soft, loving kiss on his shoulder. His voice is low and quiet when he speaks.

“I promise I will let you finish as well. But not yet.” Another kiss, closer to his neck. The rope falls to the floor, and Sherlock’s hands slide around John’s hips, fingers just barely touching skin. “I need you like this,” fingers brush along the length of John’s phallus, “a while longer. I trust you can manage that?”

“Yes.” John’s whisper comes out on a shaky breath.

Sherlock presses one more kiss, calming, reassuring, into John’s neck. “Lay on your back.”

John sits on the bed and slides to the middle of it, wincing as sheets rub against the fresh weals on his skin. When he lies on his back, Sherlock takes his hand, briefly intertwining their fingers, and brings it above John’s head to the corner of the mattress. It takes just a moment to secure his wrist to the bedpost with the rope already tied there. He walks quickly around the bed, repeating the knot once more at each corner. John looks at him as he ties the last knot, and watches as he clicks open the wooden box next to the bed, revealing three razor sharp flechettes. Much like the sight of an antique silver spoon in another now discarded box sent his mind to a higher realm of being, so too do these steel blades in their wooden housing. How many times had he carved delicate prayers into Molly’s flawless skin? He picks up one of the blades, his hands as steady as a chirurgeon’s in spite of nerves lighting up in his entire body. This time will be different. There will be scars – fine white lines across John’s skin, permanent reminders of today. Lines he could trace again in the future, or add to as they intertwine and become a testament to this, to love and lust and desire and pain and everything they are for each other, written in marked skin across John’s body.

It will be different, and it will be absolutely exquisite.

He turns to John, who has been watching his movements with wide eyes. Sherlock smiles at him and climbs gracefully over to settle on his knees between John’s legs. He sets the flechette carefully to the side for a moment and leans over to breathe and kiss along John’s stomach, one hand wrapping gently around John’s phallus and stroking it slowly. John moans deeply and arches his back, pushing his head back into the mattress. Sherlock’s lips move up, trailing kisses across John’s chest to his shoulder, his neck, his jaw. He braces his weight on one arm as he moves, still gently massaging John with the other. He slips his tongue into John’s mouth, kissing him deeply and slowly. He feels himself growing hard, and pulls away just enough to separate their lips. He strokes once more down with the hand between them, and reaches with it for the flechette. 

“This is going to hurt, more than anything we’ve done. What is your _signale_?”

It takes a moment for John to respond, and his voice is hoarse when he does. “Sandstorm”.

“Good. Elua, you are so perfect.” John smiles at the praise, and Sherlock slides back down to rest on his knees. His eyes fall to the stretch of skin between John’s hip bone and his belly. He shouldn’t start there, its sensitive and he should give John a chance to work up to it, but the blade is pressing into tender flesh before he can stop himself. Three inches, cutting down towards his thigh, just deep enough to bleed. John’s entire body tenses, and he grabs the ropes above his wrists with white-knuckled hands. His scream is a loud, guttural thing that cracks his voice and falls off into heavy, shaking breath as Sherlock pulls the blade away. Blood wells into the cut, droplets forming the beginning of tiny rivulets that will flow down his hip into the sheets. A second cut on his other side, mirroring the first, and a third tracing a line beneath his ribs. John’s screams grow ragged, his body trembles.                      

_Oh, John._

If the welts left by a crop are brush strokes on a canvas, this is gilding on a fresco in a temple to the gods. Sherlock is captivated by lines of red, by John’s voice unravelling. His heart is beating hard in his chest, and as he presses the blade into skin again, he hears bronze wings all around him. He gives himself over to the pulse of Kushiel pounding through his veins, tracing lines across John’s abdomen and chest and the inside of his thighs. Blood drips from one cut to another with absolutely breath-taking beauty. John’s voice gives out, his screams become hoarse whimpers, and his tears flow down into the mattress.

Sherlock sits up to admire his work, his own breath heavy and fast and his phallus taut against his stomach. He reaches over John to the table, setting aside the flechette and retrieving a small vial of oil. John watches him from far away, entranced by his movements. Sherlock quickly unties the knots at John’s ankles and nudges him to bend his knees up. John breathes in sharply as he moves, his muscles sore and his skin abused and overly sensitive. Sherlock pours a bit of oil into his hand, rubbing it around the edge of John’s entrance and over himself before pushing John’s knees farther up to align their hips.  John gasps, and a moan escapes Sherlock’s lips as he sinks in completely. He moves his body over John’s, holding himself up with one arm as he thrusts into him, finding a forceful rhythm to match the frantic drumming of his heart. He grabs John with his oil-slicked hand and matches his pace there, looking down and memorizing every detail of his Cassiline thoroughly and completely debauched beneath him.   

It does not take long for either of them to reach the edge of a climax. When John shudders and lets out a voiceless scream, shooting his seed onto both of them, Sherlock lets himself go as well and thrusts deep into John. The persistent pulsing of his heart, his veins, his entire being resonates with Kushiel’s presence in his mind, and he cries out as he finishes. Afterwards, he collapses, wrapping his arms around John’s body and dropping his head to touch their foreheads together. John’s eyes are closed and his body is completely limp. Sherlock rests, just breathing. A few moments later he gently, lovingly kisses John’s lips and whispers across them.

“Come back to me, love.”

He reaches up and unties the ropes at John’s wrists, then rolls over onto his back and pulls John in close, tucking him into his side with John’s head on his chest. He presses a kiss into John’s hair and runs his fingers lightly along his back, being careful to avoid the crop marks. John murmurs something unintelligible and wraps an arm tight around Sherlock’s torso.

Sherlock smiles and whispers a grateful prayer to Elua as well for giving him John. He runs his fingers through John’s hair, brushing it away from his face, and wraps both arms tightly around him.

“We do need to get up soon. Your wounds need tending.” John’s brow crinkles, and Sherlock laughs quietly. “Perhaps not just yet then.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, savoring this moment, finding a place in his mind to store this day so it may never be forgotten. His breathing slows and his body relaxes into the bed. John shifts slightly, curling around Sherlock and tangling their legs together.

Although neither of them can see it, a golden brightness fills the room, bathing them both in warmth as they drift away towards dreams of each other.


End file.
